7 

/Y-, 


LET   THE   ROOF    FALL   IN 


OF  CALIF.   LIBRARY,   LOS  ANGELES 


You  are  pleased  ?  '  " 


[Page  268.] 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 


BY 
FRANK    DANBY 

AUTHOR    OF    "THE    HEART   OF  A   CHILD, 
"  PIGS   IN    CLOVER,"    ETC. 


/  bad  thought   la  bear  thi  ibildren   laugh  with  thini  own   Hue  eyes. 
But   my   terrovt'i  voice  is   silent  wbire   my   life'1!  Itve  lies. 

Let  the  rtof  fall  »'n,  let   silence  en   the   home  ftr  ever  fall, 
Where  my  lust  son  lay  and  beard  nit  bis  lone  mother's  call. 


D.    APPLETON     AND     COMPANY 
NEW     YORK 

1910 


COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Published,  October.  1910 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  weather  was  cold,  the  sky  overcast,  there  had  been 
several  short,  sharp  showers  of  rain,  and  the  prospect 
of  a  pleasant  day's  racing  was  not  even  problematic. 
The  stand  at  Sandown  would  be  half  empty,  and  the  difficulty 
of  spotting  winners,  always  great  enough  in  the  jumping  season, 
would  be  doubled  by  the  heaviness  of  the  going. 

Lady  Carrie  Carthew  had  been  talking  about  the  weather 
since  nine  o'clock,  when  her  maid  had  called  her.  It  was 
still  the  subject  of  her  conversation  when,  at  eleven,  she  walked 
to  the  window  and  decided  it  would  be  quite  absurd  to  venture  out. 
She  had  had  her  morning  appetizer  of  rum  and  milk,  followed 
by  a  cigarette,  she  had  read  her  letters,  torn  up  her  bills,  and 
yawned  over  her  papers.  Four  or  five  dresses  had  been  taken 
out  of  the  wardrobe,  and  replaced,  discarded  definitely  for  the 
occasion.  She  had  intended  all  along  to  wear  the  new  brown 
cloth  with  her  sables,  and  the  wallflower  toque.  But  what  was 
the  good  of  dressing-up  on  a  day  like  this  ?  From  the  window  in 
Charles  Street  she  had  a  side  glimpse  into  Berkeley  Square, 
and  in  Berkeley  Square  it  was  miserable  enough,  the  moist 
air  clung  like  gray  fog  to  the  leafless  trees,  and  dripped  from 
brown  boughs  on  to  the  sodden  grass.  It  would  be  worse  still 
in  the  country,  slopping  across  the  Park  through  the  grass  to  the 
ill-protected  stand,  spending  the  rest  of  the  day  with  shoes  and 
stockings  damp  and  feet  cold,  shivering  while  the  horses  pa- 
raded, watching  them  through  obscured  field-glasses  as  they 
jumped,  or  fell  short,  the  colors  indistinguishable,  and  the 
result  in  doubt  until  the  numbers  went  up. 

1 


2129451 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Lady  Carrie  loved  a  day's  racing,  and  had,  in  fact,  insisted 
that  Lord  Ranmore  should  fetch  her  in  the  car  and  drive  her 
down.  But  the  weather  made  it  impossible.  She  gazed  out  of 
the  window,  doubted,  shivered,  and  was  glad  of  her  warm 
feignoir. 

"You  can  put  away  all  those  clothes,  Marie;  I  shall  stop  at 
home,"  she  decided  at  last,  abruptly.  "Get  me  my  writing- 
case  and  the  telephone  book.  Tell  Mrs.  Batson  we  shall  be 
four  or  five  to  lunch,  and  she  must  see  there  are  plenty  of  hot 
cakes  for  tea.  I  shall  have  bridge  here;  it  is  the  only  thing  to 
do  in  such  weather." 

She  turned  away  from  the  window.  The  warm  bedroom, 
with  all  its  comfortable  disarray,  appealed  to  her  senses,  and 
now  she  sank  luxuriously  on  to  the  sofa,  happy  in  her  decision. 

That  was  the  moment  when  the  big  car  turned  into  the 
Square,  and,  with  its  familiar  toot-toot,  and  the  soft  splash  of 
its  tires  in  the  fluid  mud,  drew  up  before  the  house. 

"Ranmore  must  give  it  up,"  she  said  to  herself  comfortably. 
"It  isn't  as  if  he  were  going  to  ride  Montserrat.  The  idiotic 
clairvoyante  put  a  stopper  on  that.  I  shall  want  Betty  Brin- 
more  for  a  fourth,  I  suppose  Betty  is  one  of  the  party." 

Any  doubt  on  that  score  was  quickly  set  at  rest,  for  the  car 
had  hardly  stopped,  the  engine  still  making  its  unholy  noise 
before  the  door,  when  Betty  Brinmore  herself,  having  discarded 
ceremony  many  years  ago,  and  never  found  time  to  recapture 
it,  burst  into  the  room  without  knocking. 

"Not  dressed  yet!  what  a  sluggard  you  are!  But  it's  just 
what  I  expected!  You '11  have  to  hurry  up  all  you  know.  Look 
sharp,  Marie,  and  put  her  ladyship  into  some  waterproof 
togs.  ..." 

"Don't  be  foolish,  Bet!  Of  course  I'm  not  going;  it's  too 
wet.  Ranmore  isn't  going  to  ride,  the  ground  will  be  nothing 
but  a  bog,  there  won't  be  a  soul  there.  ..." 

"Oh,  don't  talk!  you've  got  to  come.  Ranmore 's  outside 
with  the  car.  The  horses  will  be  there,  won't  they?  I'm 
going  to  see  Montserrat  win  the  Grand  Military  if  it  blows  a 
blizzard.  A  little  rain  won't  hurt  you,  put  on  thick  boots  and 

2 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

leggings.  There  will  be  some  ripping  good  racing,  I  can  tell 
you,  and  it  will  be  a  near  thing  between  Gabriel  and  Mont- 
serrat,  anyway.  Do  hurry!  I  want  to  have  a  good  look  at 
them  before  lunch,  and  the  first  race  is  at  one." 

Betty  Brinmore  had  a  house  near  Ascot,  where  Carrie  always 
stayed  for  the  week.  She  was  also  the  possessor,  through  her 
husband,  of  a  hunting-box  at  Melton,  a  grouse-moor,  and  a 
large  amount  of  more-or-less  exclusive  racing  information. 
Carrie  valued  her  friendship,  and  all  that  was  to  be  had  out  of 
it.  Betty  would  hardly  have  called  their  intercourse  friendship, 
it  was  not  a  word  that  fitted  Lady  Carrie;  but  they  were  inti- 
mate enemies.  Their  tastes  and  pursuits  were  similar,  and 
they  hunted  pastime  in  couples.  Betty 's  was  the  franker  nature; 
she  was  also  good-natured.  Carrie  had  persuaded  her  that 
Lord  Ranmore's  attentions  were  serious.  Well,  she  had 
brought  Ranmore,  or  Ranmore  had  brought  her,  to  fetch 
Carrie  for  Sandown;  and  Carrie  would  have  to  come.  She 
did  not  want  to  be  alone  with  three  or  four  men.  Jim  de  la 
Roche  was  in  the  car,  and  he  was  enough  for  her.  Carrie  must 
help  in  entertaining  the  others. 

Lady  Carrie  did  not  want  to  go  to  Sandown  in  the  wet;  she 
wanted  to  stay  at  home  and  play  bridge.  But  she  could  not 
afford  to  throw  away  her  chances;  the  insistence  of  Betty  and 
the  call  of  that  puffing,  straining  car  outside  were  inexorable. 
A  day  with  Ranmore,  too,  ought  not  to  be  missed,  she  knew  it 
well  enough.  She  protested,  but  her  protests  were  perfunctory. 
She  was  despoiled  of  her  comfortable  peignoir  and  laced  into  a 
tweed  frock,  before  she  had  finished  asseverating  that  she  did 
not  intend  to  move;  that  she  was  just  writing  to  Dot,  and  Jenny 
Ransom  to  come  and  play  bridge;  that  she  did  not  believe 
there  would  be  any  racing,  and  she  was  sure,  if  there  were, 
all  the  favorites  would  get  beaten. 

Betty  took  little  heed  of  her  protestations.: 

"Go  on,  Marie,  hook  her  up  as  quickly  as  you  can.  It 
doesn't  really  matter  what  you  put  on  her,  she  won't  be  with- 
out her  coat  on  a  day  like  this.  You  don't  want  that  footling 
motor- veil" — Carrie  was  endeavoring  to  secure  herself  from 

3 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

wind  and  weather — "the  car  is  shut  up.  Come  on,  we  can  do 
it  in  an  hour  if  there  are  no  police-traps.  Terence  drove  it 
round  himself.  He  has  his  cousin  with  him,  Derrick  Malone; 
such  a  fine  fellow;  twice  the  size  of  Terence.  Terence  says  he 
is  a  'black  Ranmore,'  whatever  that  may  mean.  He  has  just 
passed  an  examination  and  got  some  appointment.  Terence 
is  making  no  end  of  a  fuss  about  him.  He  is  about  six  feet  two, 
green  from  Belfast,  and  with  a  brogue  you  could  cut  with  a 
knife.  Do  come  on.  Jim  is  with  us.  He  is  riding  in  the 
first  race.  Hurry,  hurry,  hurry!" 

Betty  Brinmore,  who  had  been  Betty  Carew,  was  not  used 
to  being  contradicted.  She  was  impatient  under  it,  and  had 
no  hesitation  in  pressing  her  point.  She  wanted  to  talk  to 
Jim.  With  the  car  there  were  Ranmore,  and  his  cousin  Der- 
rick, and  Noel  Scales,  as  well  as  Jim.  Carrie  could  not  leave 
her  in  the  lurch  with  them  all.  Carrie  did  not  see  what  Bet 
found  in  Jim  de  la  Roche,  he  had  only  his  pay,  and  no  conver- 
sation except  about  racing.  But  then  Bet  could  never  under- 
stand what  Terence  Ranmore  found  in  Lady  Carrie  Carthew, 
and  this  mental  attitude,  with  the  concealment  of  it  from  one 
another,  was  typical  of  the  two  women 's  relations. 

Carrie  and  Bet  were  neighbors  at  Melton.  They  were  neigh- 
bors, too,  in  town,  where  neighborhood  counts  for  nothing. 
You  live  either  in  May  fair,  or  out  of  it.  Charles  Street  was  in 
the  area,  and  there  Carrie  had  set  up  her  Lares  and  Penates 
when  her  husband's  sudden  death  had  freed  her.  But  Berkeley 
Square  was  only  a  stone 's-throw  away,  and  fundamentally 
there  was  no  distinction  in  the  distance. 

Lord  Ranmore  was  standing  on  the  pavement-  when  the  two 
ladies  emerged  from  the  house.  If  he  were  as  impatient  as 
Betty  had  said,  he  certainly  disguised  it  well.  But  then,  Terence, 
Lord  Ranmore,  was  remarkable  for  his  pretty  manners,  in  an 
age  when,  among  a  certain  set  of  people,  it  was  considered 
good  form  not  only  to  have  no  manners,  but  to  cultivate  frank, 
rude  speech.  Terence  was  an  Irishman,  and  Ranmore  Castle 
is  not  far  distant  from  Cork,  near  where  the  Blarney-stone  is  to 
be  found. 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"And  wasn't  it  worth  while  waiting  for  her?"  he  answered 
Bet,  who  complained  the  delay.  "Let  me  present  my  cousin 
to  you,  Lady  Carrie.  It 's  the  broth  of  a  boy  he  is,  and  he  only 
speaks  Irish." 

When  Lord  Ranmore  took  his  hat  off  to  greet  them,  and 
stood  with  it  in  his  hand  until  they  were  both  in  the  car,  one 
could  see  that  the  red-gold  wave  of  his  hair  would  have  clustered 
into  curls  had  the  regulations  permitted  it.  He  had  a  dimple 
in  his  cheek  like  a  girl,  that  showed  when  he  laughed,  and  Ter- 
ence laughed  often,  then  his  blue  eyes  twinkled,  and  he  had  a 
trick  of  half  closing  them.  He  was  quite  extraordinarily  good- 
looking,  and  all  his  five  feet  nine  were  perfect  in  carriage  and 
proportion.  Deny  was  a  rough-hewn  giant  beside  him,  and 
could  not  be  said  to  have  any  manners  at  all — at  least,  the  in- 
troduction hardly  held  his  attention: 

"Can  I  really  drive  the  car  all  the  way  down,  Terence? 
You'll  trust  it  with  me,  and  you'll  not  be  wanting  the  chauffeur 
at  all?"  He  had  all  a  boy's  eagerness,  although  he  was  nearly 
twenty-four,  and  so  big.  Terence  had  driven  it  round  himself, 
with  Deny  beside  him,  and  the  chauffeur  sitting  on  the  step. 
But  it  was  raining,  and  now,  that  there  were  two  ladies,  Terence 
would  surely  be  wanting  to  talk  to  them. 

"It  will  be  a  fine  drive,"  he  went  on  excitedly,  hardly  noticing 
Lady  Carrie  Carthew,  who  was  good  to  look  upon,  neverthe- 
less; or  so  Ranmore  told  her,  giving  Deny  a  cheery  word  of 
warning  or  advice,  and  following  her  into  the  car.  The  car  was 
a  new  one,  and  this  was  the  first  day  it  had  been  out.  Derry 
thought  it  was  wonderful  of  Terence  to  entrust  it  to  him.  But 
when  wasn't  Terence  kind  to  him? 

"I  had  all  the  trouble  in  the  world  to  get  Carrie  to  dress," 
Bet  told  Terence  when  they  had  started.  Derry,  very  proud 
in  his  position  on  the  box,  had  his  hand  on  the  whistle  all  the 
time. 

Carrie  put  her  gloved  fingers  to  her  delicate  ears.  "Tell 
him  not  so  much  whistle,  please,  I  want  to  talk.  I  was  so 
disappointed  when  I  saw  in  this  morning's  paper  that  you  were 
not  going  to  ride  Montserrat.  That  is  why  I  was  not  ready 

5 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

when  Bet  came  for  me.  I  hated  going  to  the  Grand  Military 
if  I  was  not  to  see  you  ride,"  Carrie  said,  smiling  sweetly  at 
Terence,  as  if  the  weather  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  her 
hesitation,  and  bridge  held  no  allurement. 

"But  I  told  you  that  yesterday!"  He  flushed  a  little;  his  skin 
was  as  fair  as  a  girl's.  "Jim  here  has  the  mount,  and  he'll  do 
it  full  justice.  I've  put  you  a  tenner  on.  As  for  Bet,  I  believe 
it's  bankruptcy  and  the  poor-house  she'll  face,  if  it  doesn't  get 
home.  It  ought  to  be  a  good  thing;  it's  as  near  a  certainty  for 
us  as  anything  can  be." 

Jim  de  la  Roche  was  the  best  gentleman-jockey  in  England, 
and  Sir  Noel  Scales  was  another  Irishman  whose  most  salient 
feature  was  a  knowledge  of  Ruff.  Form  and  odds  were  the 
topics  all  the  way  down,  and  Betty  did  most  of  the  talking. 
Lady  Carrie  was  occupied,  as  ever  when  she  was  in  Lord 
Ranmore's  company,  in  trying  to  look  her  best,  although  her 
good  looks  were  but  a  poor  thing  compared  with  his.  Her 
strong  point  was  her  fair  hair;  she  spent  many  hours  of  the 
day  in  its  tendance.  It  was  pale  fawn-color,  it  was  waved 
daily  by  the  best  hair-dresser  in  London,  and  washed  with  white 
of  egg  and  champagne.  Whatever  the  fashion  of  the  moment 
in  hats,  she  would  wear  none  large  enough  to  cover  it.  She  had 
a  trim  and  pretty  figure,  and  rather  a  plaintive  manner,  which 
she  used  for  all  it  was  worth.  She  called  Lord  Ranmore, 
Terence,  and  paraded  her  intimacy  with  him.  She  dropped  a 
word  or  two  now  and  again  into  the  midst  of  the  racing  talk,  to 
demonstrate  to  Bet  and  the  other  men  that  she  was  familiar 
with  Lord  Ranmore's  movements  yesterday,  and  the  day  before. 
This  was  part  of  her  method.  Jim  and  Sir  Noel  knew  all  about 
it.  Everybody  knew  that  Harry  Carthew's  widow  wanted  to 
marry  Terence  Ranmore.  Odds  had  been  laid  against  her 
bringing  it  off. 

Terence's  sister  was  the  Duchess  of  Towcester,  and  Terence 
was  devoted  to  her.  When  the  odds  on,  or  against,  Lady  Carrie 
Carthew  succeeding  in  her  project  were  discussed,  it  was  always 
the  Duchess  and  her  influence  that  threw  them  against  Carrie. 
There  was  Lady  Ranmore,  too,  to  reckon  with,  Terence's 

6 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

mother.  He  was  as  a  young  sun-god  in  his  mother's  eyes;  she 
would  never  find  mortal  woman  fit  to  wed  with  him.  Wasn't  he 
the  heir  to  all  the  Ranmores,  seventeen  generations  of  them,  and 
an  epitome  of  the  whole  of  Irish  history?  Wasn't  he  the  head 
of  the  family,  to  say  nothing  of  being  the  apple  of  her  eye  and 
his  sister's?  Certainly  Carrie's  chances  if  they  depended  at  all 
on  Terence's  family,  looked  very  poor  indeed. 

The  young  sun-god  was  not  quite  in  his  best  spirits  to-day. 
His  laughter  rang  out  less  often,  or  rang  less  gaily  than  usual. 
The  twinkling  eyes  and  the  dimple  suffered  something  of  an 
eclipse.  Before  now  Carrie  had  amused  Terence,  but  her 
rallying  to-day  seemed  to  have  little  effect. 

Lady  Carrie  had  tact,  she  did  not  ask  what  ailed  him;  she 
thought  it  was  easy  enough  to  guess.  He  was  in  the  habit  of 
consulting  clairvoyantes  before  he  went  for  a  day's  racing;  and 
yesterday  he  had  been  warned  he  must  not  ride  Montserrat  for 
the  Grand  Military.  Carrie  knew  that  Terence  was  in  debt  and 
needed  money.  Lady  Ranmore  was  spending  her  jointure,  and 
all  her  private  fortune,  in  repairing  the  castle  and  improving  the 
estate.  But  there  was  not  much  left  over  for  new  motor-cars 
and  polo  ponies,  ill-luck  at  racing  and  cards,  and  Carrie's  own 
insatiable  needs.  Terence  wanted  the  money  he  would  have 
won  over  Montserrat  if  he  had  ridden  him.  There  was  no  use 
looking  further  for  the  cause  of  the  cloud  that  was  temporarily 
passing  over  his  brightness. 

Carrie  was  really  too  much  wrapped  up  in  herself  to  regard 
very  seriously  the  absence  of  Terence's  usual  high  spirits.  She 
thought  she  held  him  safely — perhaps  she  accepted  his  glumness 
as  a  further  proof  of  it.  For,  whatever  his  sentiments  might 
have  been  two  years  ago,  when  he  was  new  to  London  and  to 
her,  and  ready  to  be  pleased  with  everyone,  she  knew  quite  well 
that  to-day  there  was  little  sentiment  in  his  feelings  for  her. 
Terence  had  his  code  of  honor,  and  Lady  Carrie  had  a  claim 
upon  him.  He  would  not  ignore  nor  forget  her  claim,  but  to-day 
its  insistency  now  and  again  irritated  him.  Who  could  guess 
that  he  was  haunted  to-day  by  the  sweetest  pair  of  gray  eyes, 
pleading  eyes,  frightened  eyes,  eyes  that  shed  tears  ?  He  could 

7 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

not  see  Carrie's  eyes  through  her  veil.     They  were  not  Carrie's 
eyes  that  were  haunting  him. 

What  had  Derry  meant  by  talking  to  him  about  Rosaleen 
before  they  started?  Derry  was  nothing  but  a  boy — a  great, 
overgrown  boy,  not  ripe  for  love-making.  Derry  had  his  way  to 
make  in  the  world,  while  Rosaleen  .  .  .  Well,  he  didn't 
want  to  think  about  little  Rosaleen,  nor  to  hear  Derry  talk  of 
her.  That  was  why  he  was  riding  inside  with  Carrie  and  Bet, 
instead  of  with  Derry  on  the  box. 

Terence,  Lord  Ranmore,  was  not  the  young  sun-god  his 
mother  thought  him.  He  was,  indeed,  very  human,  just  a  dear, 
spoiled  boy  who  had  always  had  his  own  way,  and  had  taken  it 
once  too  often,  perhaps,  in  a  masterful  manner.  The  Duchess 
saw  him  with  a  lesser  halo  than  his  mother  did,  albeit  the  one  he 
wore  before  her  was  bright  enough.  But  although  he  was  not 
a  god,  nor  quite  what  they  thought  him,  he  had  a  conscience,  and 
it  was  pricking,  reminding  him,  worrying  him,  all  during  that 
motor  drive  to  Sandown. 

He  was  quite  gallant  to  Carrie  and  paid  her  compliments,  but 
S2cretly  her  note  irked  him  a  little.  If  she  held  him  in  a  chain 
of  roses,  to-day  the  roses  had  thorns. 

Betty  Brinmore  went  on  talking  of  weights  to  Jim,  as  if  she 
were  the  official  handicapper.  Sir  Noel  had  his  little  "Form  at 
a  Glance  "  with  him,  and  helped  them  to  remember  performances. 
Terence  easily  assimilated  his  talk  to  theirs,  he  was  ever  adaptable. 
Lady  Carrie's  mind  remained  chiefly  intent  upon  herself,  even 
when  she  talked  to  Terence.  When  the  weather  brightened,  as 
they  approached  Esher,  she  wished  she  had  put  on  her  brown 
dress;  when  the  rain  came  down  again  pitilessly,  she  was  glad 
she  was  in  tweed.  She  doubted  the  fitness  of  her  hat,  the  stout- 
ness of  her  boots,  and  the  resistant  quality  of  her  soup$on  of 
rouge.  But  she  continued  to  show  her  proprietorship  in  Terence, 
and,  if  she  was  thinking  of  herself  and  her  appearance  through- 
out the  journey  down,  secretly  longing,  perhaps,  for  her  bridge 
and  home-comforts,  nobody  guessed  it — least  of  all  Terence, 
who  presently  assumed  something  of  his  normal  gaiety  and 
promised  them  a  fine  day. 

8 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Arrived  at  Sandown,  his  first  care  was  for  Deny.  But  Deny 
said  he  wasn't  wet  at  all,  the  big  mackintosh  had  protected  him. 
And  he  had  never  enjoyed  anything  so  much  in  his  life  as  driv- 
ing her  down.  And  wasn't  she  a  grand  car,  and  what  would  it 
have  been  if  he  had  "let  her  out"?  Short  as  was  the  walk 
from  the  motor  to  the  enclosure,  they  were  all  pretty  wet  through 
before  they  reached  the  shelter  of  the  stand.  Terence  held  his 
umbrella  over  Carrie  very  carefully,  as  directed,  and  a  very 
cursory  inspection  of  herself  in  the  glass  in  the  ladies'  room 
assured  her  that  her  color  had  stood,  her  fringe  was  still  in  curl, 
and  there  was  nothing  in  the  way  of  her  enjoyment,  if,  indeed, 
enjoyment  were  possible  under  the  circumstances. 

Happily,  matters  improved  while  they  were  at  lunch,  and 
very  little  rain  fell  after  racing  had  begun,  although  the  weather 
remained  for  some  time  dull,  gloomy,  and  uninviting. 

The  Duchess  had  motored  all  the  way  from  Dunstans.  She 
had  heard  nothing  about  the  clairvoyante,  and  fully  expected 
Terence  was  going  to  ride  Montserrat.  She  was  alone,  and 
would  have  liked  her  brother  to  join  her.  Neither  Carrie 
Carthew,  nor  Betty  Brinmore,  were  very  congenial  to  the  Duchess 
of  Towcester,  Terence's  sister.  But  there  was  Deny,  and  the 
Duchess  cared  for  Deny  next  to  Terence  himself.  Terence 
could  not  leave  his  party,  but  he  could,  and  did,  persuade  his 
sister  to  join  it.  And  now  he  was  entirely  himself  again. 

Derry  proved  quite  a  success  among  the  little  party.  Margaret 
and  Terence  ordered  him  about,  and  it  was  easy  to  see  that  he 
worshiped  them  both,  and  they  loved  him. 

Margaret,  Duchess  of  Towcester,  had  the  Ranmore  red  in  her 
abundant  hair,  a  touch  of  their  persistent  brogue  in  her  thin, 
humorous  lips,  and  all,  and  more  than  the  family  beauty  in  her 
blue  eyes  and  ready  smile.  There  was  little  trace  of  Ranmore 
about  Derry,  although  in  his  way  he  was  no  less  distinctive. 
His  six  feet  two  made  Terence  look  small,  but  then  Terence's 
neatness  made  his  cousin  look  rough,  almost  unkempt,  in  his 
loosely  fitting  tweeds.  The  dark  hair  was  thick  about  the  wide 
brow.  There  were  strength  and  power  in  the  rugged  young  face, 
but  there  was  no  beauty.  He  had  engineer's  hands,  too,  a 

9 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

great  contrast  to  Terence's  slender  "sevens."  As  for  Margaret, 
her  hands  and  feet  were  proverbial.  Derry  was  rough-hewn 
granite  beside  the  delicate  terra-cotta  of  this  brother  and  sister. 
And  he  knew  it  so  well.  But  it  was  like  them  to  carry  him  along 
with  them  this  day,  and  to  have  made  his  rare  holiday  in  London 
so  full  and  wonderful.  He  had  finished  all  his  examinations, 
he  was  off  to  Siam  in  another  fortnight,  to  take  up  his  appoint- 
ment. But  Terence  and  Margaret  had  been  as  good  to  him  here 
as  they  always  were  at  Ranmore,  which  they  had  made  him  look 
upon  as  his  own  home.  He  was  staying  with  Terence  in  his 
rooms,  and  Terence  had  let  him  drive  the  new  car  down.  Now 
there  was  a  day's  racing  in  front  of  him. 

His  good  spirits  affected  them  all,  and  it  was  a  gay  luncheon, 
if  a  hurried  one.  Berry's  appetite  was  what  Terence  called 
"up  to  his  weight,"  and  the  Duchess  and  Terence  and,  above 
all,  Betty,  enjoyed  his  Irishisms. 

The  rows  of  chairs  in  the  Club  enclosure  were  unoccupied, 
and,  although  a  few  men  in  mackintoshes,  with  race-glasses 
slung  across  their  sholders,  stood  about  the  sodden  lawn,  and 
talked  in  pairs,  or  in  small  groups,  the  scene  was  desolate  in  the 
extreme.  The  raucous  voices  of  the  bookmakers  were  compara- 
tively silent  in  Tattersall's,  and  the  outside  public,  in  the  ready- 
money  silver  ring,  were  subdued  in  laying  and  backing  their 
fancies.  The  green  course  was  empty  but  for  a  few  mounted 
policemen,  it  had  been  cleared  for  the  first  race  without  difficulty. 

The  numbers  were  up  when  they  had  finished  lunch,  and 
before  they  had  settled  down,  the  thin  "field"  was  straggling  to 
the  starting-post. 

Lady  Carrie  and  Bet  had  the  stand  to  themselves  when  the 
men  left  them,  Sir  Noel  and  Jim  de  la  Roche  to  place  their 
bets,  Derry  to  "see  to  the  car." 

Terence,  at  the  Duchess's  request,  took  her  into  the  paddock 
to  see  Montserrat,  and  talk  to  the  trainer.  They  made  a  notice- 
able pair,  and  many  who  saw  them  together  that  day,  for  the 
last  time,  turned  involuntarily  to  look  at  them.  It  was  easy  to 
see  the  love  they  bore  each  other.  Terence's  face  was  alive 
with  animation,  hers,  hardened  somewhat  by  life,  for  she  was 

10 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

five  years  older  than  he,  and  a  wife  in  name  only,  softened 
while  she  listened,  and  in  her  eyes,  when  they  looked  upon  him, 
was  mother-love.  He  was  so  inexpressibly  dear  to  her,  this  gay, 
careless  brother,  almost  all  she  had  for  which  to  care. 

The  first  race  was  soon  over.  Jim  de  la  Roche  was  riding 
in  the  second,  and  there  was  no  doubt  Jim  could  ride.  Other 
men  had  joined  the  party  in  the  enclosure.  Betty  Brinmore  was 
one  of  the  most  popular  women  in  London,  and  what  she  did 
not  know  about  a  horse  was  not  worth  knowing.  They  wanted 
to  hear  if  Jim  was  going  to  win  the  Tally  Ho,  but  chiefly  what 
she  and  he  thought  about  the  Grand  Military.  There  was 
some  comment  about  Lord  Ranmore  standing  down;  for  Mont- 
serrat  belonged  to  Terence,  and  it  was  unusual  to  give  such  a 
mount  to  another  man.  When  Bet  told  the  story  of  how  a 
clairvoyante  had  warned  him  not  to  ride,  they  laughed,  and 
repeated  it  from  one  to  another,  and  the  thing  got  about  before 
the  flag  went  down  for  the  Tally  Ho. 

The  Tally  Ho  steeplechase  brought  out  only  four  runners. 
Jim  de  la  Roche,  carrying  the  money  of  all  the  party,  took  a 
toss  at  the  stand-fence,  and  brought  home  a  lame  horse  some 
time  after  the  rest  of  the  field.  The  little  group  who  had  been 
watching  the  race  through  their  field-glasses  shut  them  up  with 
a  cheery  word  or  two.  For  nobody  had  "put  the  pot  on"  for 
the  Tally  Ho,  and  it  is  always  amusing  when  a  fine  rider  like 
Jim  gets  thrown. 

"It  was  absurd  to  come  out  on  such  a  wet  day!"  Carrie 
commented.  "The  grass  is  so  wet  the  horses  simply  slip 
about  instead  of  running.  And  I  am  sure  I  am  catching  cold. 
Let  us  go  home  instead  of  waiting  for  the  rest,  and  play  bridge 
in  warmth  and  comfort.  Some  of  you  will  come,  won't 
you?" 

She,  too,  was  quite  popular  among  the  crowd.  That  she 
pursued  Terence  Ranmore  with  her  wiles  was  nothing  to  them, 
and  bridge  was  no  bad  substitute  for  racing  in  this  sort  of 
weather. 

"Don't  be  obstinate,  Bet,"  she  urged. 

"I  am  going  to  see  Montserrat  win  the  Grand  Military 

11 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

if  there's  a  waterspout  instead  of  a  shower.  I  told  you  so  this 
morning.  So,  please  don 't  worry  me." 

Bet  was  obstinate,  and  Lady  Carrie  had  to  stay  where  she 
was. 

The  Tally  Ho  had  been  a  disappointment,  the  men  who 
stood  around  or  came  up  to  them  were  explanatory,  condemna- 
tory, or  argumentative. 

The  great  question  was  now,  who  would  win  the  Grand 
Military?  And  on  this  opinions  were  varied.  There  was 
no  doubt  Jim  had  a  good  mount  in  Montserrat.  But  Jim 
was  all  to  pieces  to-day,  he  had  thrown  away  the  Tally  Ho. 
What  a  pity  Ranmore  was  not  riding! 

The  talk  swayed  to  and  fro,  but  always  came  back  to  the 
same  starting-point. 

Who  was  the  clairvoyante  ?  What  on  earth  was  a  clair- 
voyante,  and  what  had  she  said?  They  did  not  know  Ran- 
more was  so  superstitious.  Hadn't  he  backed  the  horse? 

The  bookmakers  seemed  to  know  that  Lord  Ranmore  was 
out  of  spirits,  or  out  of  luck,  and  their  first  fancy  for  Montserrat 
fizzled  out.  The  horse  went  back  in  the  betting,  and  now  one 
could  hear  other  horses'  names. 

"Two  to  one  bar  one!  Two  to  one  Ixion!  Three  to  one 
Montserrat!  the  field  a  pony!" 

For  everyone  could  see  the  owner  was  here;  and  why  wasn't 
he  riding? 

"Four  to  one  Montserrat!  Six  to  four  Ixion!"  The  voices 
reached  them  where  they  stood. 

"What  the  devil's  the  matter  with  the  horse,  Ranmore?" 
one  asked,  and  then  another.  "They  are  laying  against  him 
for  all  they  are  worth." 

"He  was  as  fit  as  a  fiddle  an  hour  ago,  that's  all  I  know," 
said  Terence.  "I  could  barely  get  twos  this  morning.  And 
Ixion  is  a  cart-horse  beside  him.  Where's  Jim?  Jim  ought 
to  know." 

He  had  more  money  on  Montserrat  than  he  could  afford 
to  lose.  He  generally  had  more  money  on  a  horse  than  he  could 
afford  to  lose. 

12 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"I'm  going  back  to  the  paddock  to  find  Jim.  You'll  be  all 
right  here  till  I  come  back,"  he  said  to  Carrie. 

"But  Terence,  if  Montserrat  is  lame,  if  anything  is  wrong 
with  him,  put  my  tenner  on  Ixion."  Carrie  always  had  an 
eye  to  the  main  chance. 

"I  tell  you  there  is  nothing  wrong  with  him;  there  could  not 
be." 

"Don't  get  scared,  Carrie,  and  don't  scare  Terence.  What 
does  it  matter  about  the  odds?  Jim  will  win  if  the  horse  has 
four  legs  left.  It's  all  a  question  of  jockeyship  in  this  race," 
Bet  said. 

"And  here  is  Jim,  coming  along  to  speak  for  himself." 

"But,  good  heavens!  he  has  changed  his  things.  He  isn't 
even  dressed!"  exclaimed  one  of  the  group. 

Jim  looked  pale  and  shaken,  and  he  was  evidently  in  a  tear- 
ing hurry. 

"That  you,  Ranmore?  I  want  to  speak  to  you."  He  took 
him  on  one  side.  "Look  here,  old  fellow,  I  hate  doing  it,  but 
I  must  throw  up  the  mount,  and  they've  got  to  hear  about  it. 
No  one  can  ride  him  but  you  or  me;  you  know  that  as  well  as 
they  do.  I've  sprained  my  infernal  wrist;  I  couldn't  hold  a 
donkey.  I've  put  a  pot  of  money  on  him.  .  .  .  You  don't 
really  funk  it,  do  you?" 

For  Ranmore  had  not  acquiesced,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
but  hesitated. 

"How  about  Jerry?" 

"Don't  be  an  ass!  You  are  not  going  to  chuck  away  the 
race,  and  my  money  as  well  as  your  own,  because  a  rotten  Bond 
Street  charlatan  warned  you  you'd  come  to  grief?" 

"I'll  come  to  grief,  anyhow,  if  it  doesn't  win." 

"Well,  what's  to  hold  it  back?" 

What  the  clairvoyante  had  said  was  that  she  saw  trouble 
in  the  crystal,  and  that  the  trouble  was  connected  with  horses. 
She  had  not  been  able  to  get  a  clear  view,  or  to  give  a  clear 
description  of  what  she  had  seen.  There  was  the  race-course, 
with  the  horses  galloping  over  the  turf;  then,  before  she  could 
distinguish  horses  or  riders,  the  crystal  became  clouded.  Last 
2  13 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

year  in  this  very  race,  Lord  Ranmore  told  her,  he  had  come  a 
cropper  at  the  stand-fence  and  broken  a  rib;  the  year  before  he 
had  been  thrown  at  the  water  and  damaged  a  knee-cap.  She 
had  warned  him  not  to  ride,  been  insistent  in  her  warning.  But 
it  was  not  entirely  because  of  what  the  clairvoyante  had  said 
that  he  hesitated.  He  could  not  afford  any  sort  of  accident 
just  now,  that  was  the  truth.  He  had  a  sin  on  his  conscience; 
only  last  night  that  wild  letter  had  come  from  Rosaleen.  He 
was  ashamed  and  sorry  for  what  he  had  done.  Of  course,  he 
must  put  it  right.  He  must  not,  dare  not  risk  an  accident.  He 
had  a  sense  of  apprehension  on  him;  not  through  what  the  clair- 
voyante had  said,  but  because  of  that  miserable,  despairing 
pathetic  little  letter. 

"I  don't  think  I'll  ride,"  he  said  again  hesitatingly. 

Carrie  and  Bet  began  to  rally  him. 

"Terence  goes  to  a  clairvoyante  regularly,"  Carrie  said. 
She  was  really  anxious  about  her  "tenner,"  and  felt  she  would 
secure  it  if  she  could  persuade  Terence  to  the  mount. 
"And  half  the  time  she  is  warning  him  of  something  or  the 
other." 

"Did  she  ever  put  him  on  a  winner?"  Jim  asked  impatiently. 

Ranmore  was  certainly  wavering;  it  was  the  merest  folly 
that  stood  between  them  and  their  money.  Bet  knew  it,  and 
Jim  no  less;  but  it  was  Lady  Carrie  that  jeered  at  him,  and 
knew  how  to  move  him. 

"Don't  make  him  do  it,  Bet,  if  he  really  is  afraid.  He 
would  only  lose  his  nerve  and  throw  the  race  away." 

"No  one  has  ever  seen  me  lose  my  nerve  when  I  am  on  a 
horse." 

"Well,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  this  clairvoyante  business 
has  upset  you.  You  haven't  been  yourself  since  yesterday." 

Terence  acknowledged  this,  but  he  knew  also  that  it  was  not 
the  clairvoyante 's  fault. 

"Look  at  that!"  Jim  held  out  his  hand,  the  wrist  had  been 
bandaged,  but  the  fingers  were  swollen  and  red,  and  there  was 
not  the  slightest  doubt  they  could  not  hold  a  rein.  "But  I'll 
ride  him  with  one  hand  sooner  than  he  shouldn't  go  at  all." 

14 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Do  make  up  your  mind,  Terence." 

The  numbers  were  up  for  the  "United  Service  Steeplechase,'* 
and  already  the  horses  were  coming  out  of  the  paddock.  The 
Grand  Military  was  next  on  the  card.  It  was,  of  course,  the 
race  of  the  day.  For  the  moment  betting  on  it  had  ceased, 
but  there  really  was  not  a  minute  to  lose. 

And  Terence  was  longing  to  go;  there  was  no  lack  of  heart 
or  courage  in  him,  and  he  did  not  know  the  meaning  of  the  word 
fear.  But  he  had  done  a  blackguardedly  thing,  and  he  meant  to 
put  it  right.  He  never  had  a  doubt  until  the  clairvoyante  had 
put  it  there.  Since  then  he  had  been  thinking,  and  thinking 
was  a  new  trick  for  Terence  Ranmore.  Suppose  anything 
happened  to  him  before  he  answered  that  letter,  and  made  up 
his  mind  what  he  should  do? 

And  what  had  Derry  meant  by  his  talk  about  Rosaleen?  She 
wasn't  anything  to  Deny. 

But,  there  now,  what  was  the  good  of  going  over  it  all  again  ? 
What  should  happen  to  him?  And  what  a  fool  he  was  to  go 
imagining  things,  letting  Carrie  and  Jim  and  Bet,  and  all  of 
them,  think  him  a  coward!  And  Montserrat — Montserrat 
to  be  ridden  by  Jerry,  or  Jim  with  his  disabled  hand,  or  some 
lout  of  a  stable-body!  It  couldn't  be  done. 

The  flag  was  down,  the  "field"  for  the  United  Service  was 
off;  there  really  was  not  a  moment  to  spare. 

This  was  the  unlucky  moment  when  Derry  came  back, 
muddy  from  some  work  he  had  been  doing  on  the  car,  ignorant 
of  all  that  had  happened.  Probably  he  had  never  heard  of  a 
clairvoyante  in  his  life.  For,  if  he  had,  bred  in  a  land  with  a 
peasantry  to  whom  superstition  is  as  ingrained  as  their  religion, 
he  might  have  hesitated  to  speak,  or  spoken  differently.  As 
it  was,  when  Bet  appealed  to  him  and  said,  "Oh,  Mr.  Malone, 
here's  Terence  hesitating  about  riding  Montserrat.  Now,  do 
persuade  him,  for  there's  no  one  else  can  ride  him!"  Derry 
dashed  into  the  conversation  like  a  steam-engine. 

"Oh,  sure,  Terence,  and  you  wouldn't  be  disappointing 
the  lady,  and  all  of  us?  I've  never  seen  you  steeplechasing, 
and  wouldn't  I  love  to  see  you  skimming  over  the  fences! 

15 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

The  memory  of  it  would  be  something  to  take  with  me  to 
Siam." 

It  was  then,  and  then  only,  Terence  yielded.  He  gave  in 
all  at  once,  and  as  if  glad  of  the  chance. 

"All  right,  Deny,  if  it's  to  please  you,  I'll  go.  And  I'll 
win  your  tenner  for  you,  Carrie,  never  fear  of  that.  You  might 
put  another  pony  on  for  me,  Jim,  it  will  wake  them  up  there 
in  the  ring.  Go  and  look  after  Margaret,  Deny;  she  is  still 
in  the  paddock.  Take  her  down  to  the  rails  to  see  the  race, 
I  '11  try  and  give  you  the  treat  of  seeing  me  half  a  field  in  front 
of  the  others." 

Jim  got  him  away  as  quickly  as  he  could.  He  did  not  want 
him  to  alter  his  mind,  and  as  it  was,  there  would  be  very  little 
time  for  him  to  change  into  his  racing  clothes.  Terence  went 
gladly  enough  now,  all  his  mercurial  spirits  rising  as  he  talked 
of  what  the  horse  could  do. 

The  sky  really  cleared  up  for  the  first  time  that  day,  and  his 
natural  gaiety  rose  with  the  lifting  of  the  clouds.  He  dressed 
quickly,  and  found  his  sister  and  Deny  walking  by  the  side  of 
the  groom  with  the  horse. 

"There's  nothing  wrong  with  him,"  she  said;  "his  coat  is 
like  satin,  and  he  seems  to  me  to  be  trained  to  a  hair.  I'm  glad 
you're  going  to  ride  him  yourself.  I  couldn't  make  out  your 
ever  leaving  it  to  Captain  de  la  Roche.  Captain  de  la  Roche 
can  ride,  but  you  ride  so  much  better." 

"I'm  better  at  everything  in  your  eyes,  Margaret;  in  yours 
and  Derry's."  And  then,  for  he  could  not  quite  throw  off  that 
which  was  oppressing  him,  he  added  lightly,  "I  wish  I  were  half 
as  good  as  you  both  think  me." 

"Well,  we  can  ride,"  she  said  candidly.  And,  indeed,  no 
one  could  deny  that  to  either  brother  or  sister. 

He  spoke  to  the  horse  as  he  mounted. 

"You'll  carry  me  kindly,  old  boy,  you're  knowing  it's  me, 
aren't  you?  Why,  it's  dancing  he  is  at  the  thought  of  a  race. 
Gently  now!  I'll  bring  you  home  the  cup,"  he  called  out  to 
his  sister,  as  the  groom  released  the  bit.  Look  after  her,"  he 
said  to  Deny,  "take  her  down  to  the  rails." 

16 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

«•, 

He  cantered  away  from  them,  with  his  head  erect,  and  a 
whole  lifetime  of  boyish  enjoyment  in  his  blue  eyes.  Now  he 
forgot  everything  that  had  held  him  back.  He  felt  the  strength 
and  confidence  of  a  good  horseman  on  a  good  mount. 

"God!  I  could  ride  anything  to-day!"  was  about  as  coherent 
a  thought  as  he  could  muster,  while  the  horse  carried  him  lightly, 
and  the  heavy  wet  turf  splattered  up  under  the  hoofs.  The 
wind  blew  strong  and  sweet  in  his  face,  and  the  sun  shone. 
There  was  nothing  he  had  done  that  he  could  not  put  right, 
and  Margaret  would  help  him,  a  splendid  sister  to  him  was 
Margaret.  And,  if  it  came  to  it,  there  was  little  his  mother 
wouldn't  forgive  him.  He  knew  he  was  the  apple  of  her  eye. 
He  did  not  know  what  had  upset  him  so  thoroughly,  but  he 
was  glad  he  had  pulled  himself  together  in  time. 

"So  ho!  gently  now!  don't  take  it  out  of  yourself  before  we're 
starting."  He  knew  how  to  talk  to  his  horse,  and  quiet  him 
with  hands  and  voice. 

Now  they  were  at  the  post. 

There  were  eight  starters,  and  Ixion  was  fidgety.  Perhaps 
he  knew  how  much  of  the  stables'  money  he  was  carrying,  and 
fretted  to  get  rid  of  the  burden. 

"They  are  off!"  was  called  out  twice.  But  each  time  it  was 
a  false  alarm;  and  first  Ixion,  and  then  Gabriel,  and  finally 
Montserrat  had  to  be  taken  back,  and  patted  down,  and  taught 
to  stand  still  until  the  flag  fell.  But  he  was  off  at  last,  the  turf 
flying,  the  wind  in  his  face,  the  thud  of  other  hoofs  before  and 
behind.  There  were  two  miles  and  a  half  to  go,  and  nothing 
was  going  better  than  Montserrat;  he  skimmed  the  stand-fence 
like  a  bird. 

"So  much  for  the  clairvoyante!"  was  the  joyous  phrase  in 
Terence's  mind  as  he  felt  the  turf  under  him  again.  Ixion  had 
fallen,  a  flying  glance  over  his  shoulder  saw  that,  Gabriel  and 
Red  Rover  were  neck  to  neck  on  his  flank.  The  danger,  if 
there  ever  had  been  danger,  was  past;  there  was  only  the  water  to 
get  over,  and  then  a  race  for  home.  A  handkerchief  could  have 
covered  all  three  at  the  water,  Gabriel  and  Red  Rover  were 
still  neck  to  neck.  It  was  a  fine  race,  the  best  race  of  the  day. 

17 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Something  touched  Montserrat's  quarters  as  he  rose — Terence 
knew  it;  a  blunder  was  inevitable,  but  he  was  ready  for  it.    .    .    . 

"Two  to  one  bar  one,  the  field  a  pony,  six  to  four  on  Red 
Rover,  five  to  four  on  Red  Rover!  A  thousand  to  nothing  on 
Red  Rover. "  And  some  fool  shouted. 

"Hurrah!  the  favorite's  beat!" 

Margaret  had  been  standing  to  see  the  race,  close  to  the  rails. 
She  turned  round  to  her  cousin,  and  already  her  eyes  were 
startled. 

"  Deny,  someone  has  fallen! " 

Derry  saw  that  her  face  was  white. 

"There  are  only  two  of  them  running  now.  That's  Mont- 
serrat,  with  the  empty  saddle.  Why  doesn't  Terence  move? 
Derry,  can  you  see?  My  glasses  are  blurred,  can  you  see 
Ranmore?  Is  he  on  his  feet  yet?  There's  Montserrat,  gallop- 
ing home  by  himself.  Derry  I" 

"I  can't  quite  focus  them,  I'm  not  sure  at  all  who  it  is.  We'll 
go  over,  come  on,  I'm  sure  it's  all  right.  Here,  give  me  your 
hand;  let's  run  for  it.  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  hush  over  the  field,  and  even  in  the  ring;  men 
seemed  to  be  rushing  past  them  as  they  ran,  men  with  white  faces 
and  shocked  eyes,  calling  out  something  they  would  not  hear. 

Only  Lady  Carrie  Carthew,  intent  on  keeping  her  feet  dry, 
alone  in  the  Grand  Stand,  recognised  nothing  ominous  in  the 
silence.  There  had  been  a  spill,  as  usual.  Terence  was  down 
and  Montserrat's  chances  done  for.  She  wanted  the  money 
badly,  but  Terence  would  make  it  right.  One  must  say  that 
about  Terence,  he  was  awfully  good  about  money  matters. 
She  shut  up  her  race-glasses.  The  race  was  over.  What  were 
they  all  waiting  for?  Where  was  The  Duchess?  She  had 
monopolized  that  big,  hulking  cousin  of  Terence's. 

"Where  on  earth  are  they  all  running  to?"  she  asked  Bet. 
But  Bet,  too,  was  running.  Everyone  wanted  to  get  to  the  pad- 
dock, and  hear  what  had  happened.  It  was  not  like  an  ordinary 
meeting.  The  riders  were  all  their  own  friends  and  intimates, 
and  if  it  was  Terence  Ranmore  who  was  hurt,  it  was  they  who 
had  persuaded  Ranmore  to  ride.  .  .  . 

18 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  Duchess  and  Deny  had  run  quickly,  but  the  stretcher, 
and  other  help  than  theirs,  had  already   reached  the 
injured  man  before  they  got  to  the  paddock.     Margaret 
was  not  a  fainting  woman,  but  the  world  turned  black,  and  only 
her  cousin  Derry's  roughened  hand  held  her  up  when  she  realized 
what  was  happening. 

"They  are  bringing  him  to  the  weighing- room:  we'll  get  there 
this  way  quicker.  Don't  give  way  now,  Madge.  Maybe  it  is 
not  so  bad  as  you  think.  Come  along." 

There  was  a  crowd  about  the  door;  the  constables  were  not 
needed  to  keep  order,  for  all  were  Ranmore's  friends,  who  held 
their  breath  as  he  was  carried  past.  There  had  not  been  a 
moment's  delay.  It  was  a  military  meeting,  and  the  ambulance 
had  been  galloped  across  the  field  the  moment  it  was  seen  that 
Ranmore  made  no  attempt  to  rise.  It  was  true  enough — 
everybody  was  Ranmore's  friend;  he  never  had  but  one  enemy, 
poor  lad!  Some  of  the  men  could  not  bear  to  look  at  what  was 
carried,  others  pressed  close.  As  Deny  pushed  through  them 
with  Margaret,  to  whom  all  seemed  blurred  with  the  swaying 
sky  and  ground,  their  ears  caught  the  words: 

"I  heard  him  speak  as  they  carried  him  in;  it  can't  be  as  bad 
as  they  said." 

Margaret  made  Deny  stop  a  minute,  leaning  up  against  the 
closed  door,  she  had  to  gather  together  her  courage.  And  here 
other  scraps  of  speech  reached  her: 

"He  fell  clear,  but  Gabriel  kicked  him." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,  my  dear  fellow!  I  saw  it  distinctly.  It 
was  foul  racing,  I  swear;  Lawton  bumped  against  him  on 
purpose.  Montserrat  jumped  short,  and  Ranmore  went  over 
his  head." 

"Did  you  hear  that  a  clairvoyante  had  warned  him?" 

19 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"  I  must  find  out  how  he  is,  let  me  pass.  Nothing  must  happen 
to  Ranmore,  he  is  the  only  bright  spot  in  this  hell  of  a  world." 

"Such  a  little  gentleman!" 

"  Gay  as  a  lark,  there  never  has  been  anyone  quite  like  him." 

"No,  and  never  will  be  again.  It's  impossible  it's  as  bad  as 
they  say." 

"Jack  heard  him  speak.   ..." 

It  was  strange  how  far  off  their  voices  sounded,  although  they 
themselves  were  all  so  close  to  her.  The  voices  were  muffled  too, 
yet  how  clearly  she  heard  them. 

Inside  the  weighing-room  everything  seemed  in  military  order. 
The  stretcher  lay  in  the  middle,  just  in  front  of  the  machine,  the 
doctors,  and  two  of  the  orderlies,  stood  at  the  head.  Margaret 
was  very  pale,  but  her  courage  and  calm  came  back  to  her  when 
she  saw  Terence  lying  there.  She  thought  he  was  looking  for 
her,  she  knelt  quickly  by  the  side  of  the  stretcher.  There  were 
shocked,  pale  faces,  even  wet  eyes,  in  the  group  at  the  head  of 
the  stretcher.  But  Terence,  with  a  regimental  pillow  under  his 
head,  and  his  eyes  shining,  seemed  quite  in  good  spirits. 

"That  you,  Midge  mavourneen?"  he  asked.  They  were 
children  again  together,  in  league  for  mischief;  it  was  a  childish 
name  he  used.  "A  bad  cropper  this  time,  I'm  thinking.  But 
there  never  was  a  Ranmore  died  of  old  age.  Let's  have  a  look 
at  you,  Margaret.  I  can  read  your  face  like  a  book,  and  it'll  be 
written  there.  They  haven't  told  me  a  word  yet.  I  can't  feel 
anything.  ..." 

She  kept  her  face  bidden  a  moment  longer,  and  then  faced 
him  as  brave  as  he  was.  There  was  no  color  in  her  face,  or  lips, 
but  her  blue  eyes  lied  bravely  and  smiled  into  his. 

"I've  had  a  fright,  but  it's  past  now.  Ah!  the  trouble  you've 
always  been  to  me,  Terence.  And  here's  a  month's  nursing  on 
our  hands." 

But  his  eyes  were  bright,  and  searching. 

"Tell  me  the  truth,  Margaret;  don't  keep  it  from  me^  I'm 
wanting  to  know.  I  must  know.  ..." 

It  was  impossible  to  say  how  the  agony  and  the  certainty  had 
got  into  the  air.  Margaret's  courage  was  a  thing  to  wonder  at, 

20 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

but  there  was  a  cold  clutch  at  her  heart,  and  over  and  over  again 
the  swaying  room  went  black.  But  her  eyes  held  desperately 
to  Terence's  face,  and  she  knew  she  was  not  going  to  fail  him. 

"We'll  hear  presently,  I  expect,"  she  said.  "Anyway  there 
are  no  bones  broken,  and  the  concussion  must  be  quite  slight. 
Go  on  talking  to  me.  Where  do  you  feel  it?  How  did  it 
happen?" 

"I  can't  feel  anything.  It  wasn't  Montserrat's  fault;  he  went 
down  like  a  gentleman,  and  I  rolled  away  from  him.  I  recollect 
it  perfectly.  You  know  the  sky  was  blue,  and  the  sun  was  in  my 
eyes.  I  don't  know  exactly  what  happened.  Who  won  the  race  ?" 

"  I  forgot  to  look.     So  you're  not  in  any  pain  ?" 

"I'm  thinking  it's  the  spine,  Gabriel  must  have  kicked  me  as 
he  went  over,  it  wasn't  Montserrat.  What'll  you  do  about 
mother?" 

"I'm  only  thinking  about  you." 

Then  he  lay  silent  for  a  minute. 

Jim  de  la  Roche  was  as  hard  as  nails;  he  had  come  in  quietly 
and  was  standing  with  the  two  doctors,  one  of  them  had  said  a 
word  to  him;  and  now  the  tears  were  coursing  down  his  cheeks. 
Only  Derry,  towering  above  the  others,  had  not  yet  grasped  the 
position.  His  eyes,  like  a  Newfoundland  dog's,  were  fixed  on 
Margaret.  There  was  still  color  in  Terence's  face,  and  he  was 
talking. 

"Is  Carrie  there?  Lady  Carrie  Carthew?"  Terence  asked 
presently. 

"Do  you  want  her,  dear?  I'll  send  for  her,"  Margaret  an- 
swered. "Go,  Derry,  go,  you'll  find  her  on  the  stand." 

"Tell  her  that  tenner  will  be  all  right.   ..." 

But  Derry  had  gone,  glad  to  be  doing  something,  he  was 
hardly  uneasy  yet. 

"You  know  all  about  me  and  Carrie?"  Terence  went  on  to 
his  sister,  not  quite  sure  to  whom  he  was  talking.  His  eyes 
were  beginning  to  glaze.  "  I  have  to  do  something  for  her.  It 
was  I  who  killed  Harry  Carthew.  God  knows,  I  didn't  mean  to 
do  it;  I  don't  know  how  it  came  about.  ..."  Some  trouble 
was  struggling  with  his  weakness. 

21 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Don't  think  of  it,  dear!"  She  thought  he  was  wandering. 
Sir  Harry  Carthew  had  died  of  an  accident,  two  years  since. 
He  had  been  drunk  at  the  Ralyn  Club,  and  fallen  downstairs. 
He  had  been  picked  up  unconscious,  suffering  from  concussion, 
then  delirium  tremens  had  intervened,  and  hastened  the  end. 
Everyone  knew  the  story,  it  had  all  come  out  at  the  inquest. 
It  had  nothing  to  do  with  Terence,  his  name  had  not  been  even 
mentioned. 

"Carrie  knows  I  killed  him.  I've  helped  her  out  since 
then.  What  was  it  I  wanted  to  say  to  you?  It  wasn't  about 
Carrie.  .  .  ." 

Now  the  cold  grip  on  her  heart  was  loosening,  and  the  room 
seemed  to  be  growing  steady.  But  if  he  were  going  out,  then 
the  best  part  of  her  life  was  going  out  with  his.  There  were 
only  those  two — brother  and  sister — more  to  each  other  than  all 
the  world  knew.  None  but  Terence  understood  the  tragedy 
her  marriage  had  been,  and  the  empty  life  she  had,  with  only  his 
to  follow  and  delight  in.  And  there  was  the  mother  of  them  to 
face  presently. 

Terence  had  been  given  an  injection  of  morphia  before  they 
had  lifted  him  from  where  he  lay,  after  the  horse  had  kicked  him. 
His  spine  was  broken,  and  there  was  no  more  hope  of  his  living 
than  if  he  had  died  where  he  fell.  The  morphia  injection  was  all 
the  doctor  could  do  for  him,  and  it  acted  intermittently. 

"I  feel  rather  excited  .  .  .  I've  got  so  much  to  say,  don't 
leave  me,  Midge,  don't  go,"  the  poor  boy  murmured,  and  then 
drowsed  off  into  unconsciousness. 

Margaret  got  up  from  her  knees.  It  was  then  she  saw  that 
Jim  de  la  Roche  was  crying,  and  dimly  she  wondered  why 
anyone  should  cry  but  herself.  She  heard  the  names  of  horses 
being  called  outside.  The  numbers  were  going  up  for  the  next 
race.  Terence  heard  it  too: 

"My  number's  up,"  he  said  drowsily.  "The  flag's  down, 
I'm  off,  steady,  Margaret,  don't  cry.  ..." 

But  Margaret  was  not  crying.  She  spoke  to  the  doctors. 
There  were  two  of  them,  and  they  had  sent  for  more.  They 
could  not  deceive  her  or  themselves. 

22 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Is  there  anything  to  be  done?"  she  asked. 

"The  horse  kicked  him,"  one  answered  vaguely. 

"Don't  cry,"  she  said  to  Captain  de  la  Roche.  "He'll  hear 
you.  .  .  .  And  I  want  you  to  help  me."  Even  in  her  grief 
she  knew  how  to  soothe  his  lighter  trouble.  "  Will  you  go  and 
give  out  that  it  is  nothing  of  consequence?  I  cannot  let  my 
mother  hear  it  cried  in  the  streets.  See  the  reporters,  lie  to 
them.  ..." 

But  Terence  called  to  him: 

"Is  that  you,  Jim?  How  quiet  everything  seems,  and  me 
lying  here.  Let  one  of  the  doctor  fellows  come  over."  One 
moved  to  him. 

"Give  me  the  truth,"  Terence  said.  "Am  I  done  for?  I 
want  to  know." 

"We've  sent  for  Sir  Gregory  Owen,"  was  all  the  military 
doctor  could  find  to  say.  "You're  not  in  any  pain,  are  you?" 

"Can't  you  tell  me  when  I  ask  you?" 

"You've  had  a  bad  spill." 

"An'  me  back's  broken?"  he  said  quickly. 

"Wait  until  Sir  Gregory  comes." 

"Man,  I've  maybe  got  no  time  to  wait.  Margaret!  Margaret! 
come  over  here  to  me." 

"And  as  if  I'd  move!"  She  knelt  down  again  and  he  put  out 
his  hand  to  her: 

"It's  Derry'll  come  after  me,  isn't  it?  I'm  not  clear.  Is  it 
Derry?" 

She  couldn't  help  the  sob  in  her  throat. 

"Yes,  it's  Derry." 

But  all  their  love  was  in  Terence;  and  here  he  lay,  already  the 
pallor  spreading,  and  the  eyes  glazing,  and  not  a  hope  for  her 
to  hold  on  to. 

"It's  Derry  then  I  must  talk  to.  I  haven't  been  what  you 
thought  me,  Margaret;  what  any  of  you  have  thought  me.  It's 
a  blackguard  I've  been  up  there  at  Ranmore.  Don't  let  mother 
know,  let  her  go  on  thinking  I'm  all  she  meant  me  to  be,  my 
father's  son,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  .  .  .  What  did  Derry 
say  about  Rosaleen?" 

23 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Rosaleen  O'Daly?     Little  Rosaleen  at  the  Castle?" 

"And  there's  Carrie — and  I'm  up  to  me  neck  in  debt.  And 
mother  saving  all  the  time  for  me,  an'  getting  Ranmore  to  rights, 
an'  all!" 

"She's  been  a  good  mother  to  you.  She'll  not  think  hardly 
of  anything  you've  done.  Don't  fret,  darling.  Look  what 
you've  been  to  me!" 

"  Get  Deny  here.     I  want  to  talk  to  him   .    .    .   Deny." 

Derry  was  here  already,  with  Carrie  Carthew — reluctant  to 
enter,  shrinking  from  any  unpleasant  sight,  incredulous  of  the 
worst.  The  racing  was  going  on,  and  the  ring  had  woke  up 
again;  for  already  Jim  had  been  at  work,  and  the  rumors  of 
anything  worse  than  a  broken  rib  or  two,  and  possibly  concussion, 
had  been  quickly  contradicted.  But  Terence  no  longer  wanted 
Carrie;  for  the  moment  he  had  forgotten  Carrie.  It  was  Derry, 
his  cousin,  his  heir,  to  whom  he  must  speak.  Terence  was 
hearing  the  Great  Whisper;  no  longer  as  a  distant  murmur,  as  of 
waters  breaking  on  the  shores  of  time;  it  was  flood,  overwhelming 
consciousness,  drowning  thought.  But  he  must  speak — he 
must.  The  tide  must  not  bear  him  out  until  he  had  spoken. 
This  was  the  bravest  act  of  his  life,  this  struggle  against  the  tide. 
Pain,  agony  was  on  this  side,  but  he  would  not  cross.  It  was 
morphia  against  which  he  was  struggling;  had  he  had  full 
consciousness,  he  would  have  said  it  was  a  cruel  kindness  they 
had  done  him.  He  must  turn  back,  breast  these  breakers  of 
agony,  turn  his  back  on  the  calm  flood;  there  was  a  message  to 
deliver  before  he  could  go.  He  met  the  agony  like  the  fine 
soldier  that  he  was.  It  brought  consciousness  with  it. 

"Deny!  Derry,  come  dose.  Don't  let  anyone  else  hear." 
And  Margaret  moved  back. 

"I'm  kneeling  close  against  you.  Put  your  lips  to  me  ear, 
me  heart's  yours,  Terence.  Tell  me  what  you  want." 

"You'll  do  it  for  me?  Everything  will  be  yours — you'll 
do  it?  Swear.  ..." 

There  was  something  on  the  dying  man's  mind,  or  conscious- 
ness. The  words  came  and  went,  but  never  the  right  words. 
Something  he  wanted  to  tell  his  cousin,  to  make  him  promise. 

24 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Margaret  mustn't  hear,  no  one  must  hear.  He  grew  shockingly 
agitated,  he  even  made  vain,  frantic,  horrible  efforts  to  rise;  but 
only  his  head  moved  a  little,  wildly,  on  that  regimental  pillow, 
and  his  eyes  grew  bright  again,  and  pleaded  frantically. 

"You'll  do  it,  Deny ?     Swear." 

"  I'll  die  rather  than  fail  you.  What  is  it,  then  ?  I  swear  I'll 
do  it,  if  it's  me  life  you're  asking." 

And  then  the  struggle  ceased  suddenly,  and  Terence  lay  back 
easily — he  thought  he  had  told  it. 

"I  believe  it  was  always  you  she  liked  the  best,"  the  dying  lips 
murmured;  "little  Rosaleen,  my  dark  Rosaleen!  how  she  fought 
against  me!  the  pretty!"  His  eyes  closed;  it  seemed  he  had 
fallen  asleep. 

"Is  it  Rosaleen?"  Deny  cried  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  What 
was  this  that  was  happening  ?  "  What  is  it  you  mean,  Terence  ? 
Tell  me,  tell  me!  You  mustn't  go  now  .  .  .  tell  me." 

His  voice  aroused  Terence,  but  the  restlessness  was  gone  for 
the  moment. 

"Mother  mustn't  know;  she'd  be  hard  on  her.  But  it  wasn't 
any  fault  of  hers.  Tell  her  I'm  sorry  ...  an'  the  chapel  was 
consecrated." 

"Is  it  Rosaleen  you're  meaning?" 

"Isn't  that  Carrie?"  He  was  not  quite  himself  now.  Carrie 
did  not  seem  to  matter  so  much. 

Derry's  face  was  almost  as  white  as  Terence's  when  he  rose 
to  his  feet,  staggering  a  little.  And  Margaret  moved  to  be  near, 
to  support  him.  Margaret  was  quick  of  perception. 

"I  saw  he  had  something  on  his  mind,  Deny.  That's  why 
I  left  you  to  him.  Has  he  told  you  ?" 

Derry  put  a  shaking  hand  to  brush  the  mist  from  his  eyes. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  almost  piteously.     "I  don't  know." 

The  two  watched  Terence;  surely  he  would  speak  again. 

"  But  whatever  he's  asked  you  to  do,  you'll  do  for  him,  Derry  ?" 

"  Haven't  I  sworn  it  ?     And  him  laying  dying  there!" 

"Oh,  Terence!  Terence!  Not  that,  not  that!  I  can't  bear 
it,  I  can't!  Don't  leave  me  alone,  don't  die  ...  Terence!" 

It  was  the  first  time  her  despair  had  been  voiced;  and  it  was 

25 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

only  then  she  flung  herself  beside  him  and  cried  to  him,  raining 
out  her  tears.  He  lay  peacfeul,  heeding  nothing,  the  morphia 
well  at  work  now.  Berry's  slow  brain  was  on  fire,  and  his  eye- 
lids burned,  and  all  his  love  and  loyalty  to  these  two,  and  to  the 
family,  seethed  in  his  great  tempestuous  heart. 

For  Terence  was  dying — Terence,  who  had  been  good  to  him 
all  his  life — Terence  who  was  the  sun  of  the  world,  the  Ranmore 
of  Ranmores.  He  had  sworn  to  do  what  Terence  asked.  And 
it  was  something  about  Rosaleen.  .  .  .  He  must  not  think  too 
much  about  that.  .  .  .  And  there  was  something  about  Carrie, 
and  that  was  Lady  Carrie  Carthew  who  was  outside.  Poor 
Derry  was  all  at  sea,  and  desperately  miserable.  And  the  last 
thing  in  the  world  he  thought  of  was  that,  if  Terence  died,  he 
would  be  Lord  Ranmore,  and  stand  in  his  cousin's  shoes. 

But  the  end  was  not  yet.  It  would  perhaps  have  been  better 
for  Terence,  and  for  all  of  them,  if  it  had  been.  Science  set  to 
work,  the  Deus  ex  machina  being  the  great  Sir  Gregory  Owen, 
who  arrived  in  a  forty  horse-power  motor  car,  and  refused  to 
accept  anyone's  diagnosis,  or  to  believe  in  anyone  else's  examina- 
tion. The  poor  lad  was  roused  and  stimulated,  and  examined 
and  cross-examined.  He  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  die;  that  was 
the  final  verdict.  He  was  to  be  carried  up  to  London  in  an 
ambulance,  and  to  be  taken  to  a  nursing  home,  and  experimented 
upon.  For  that  is  what  it  amounted  to.  Perhaps  Lady  Ran- 
more, hastily  summoned  from  Dunmanway,  was  glad  of  this 
break  in  the  awful  suddenness  of  her  bereavement.  She  had 
him  for  a  few  short  weeks  to  fondle  and  nurse;  she  had  a  memory 
or  two  to  store  up  of  a  plaintive  "Mother,  are  you  there?"  or 
"Mother,  make  them  leave  me  alone,"  a  clinging  to  her,  a  return 
to  babyhood.  Yet  who  that  loved  him  could  be  glad  to  see  him 
die  by  inches,  instead  of  gallantly,  and  suddenly,  with  his 
courage  unconquered  ? 

Science  got  to  work  on  him,  and  all  the  surgeons  and  physicians 
of  Sir  Gregory's  own  hospital  set,  whom  he  called  in  consultation, 
carefully  avoiding  all  those  of  any  other  school,  benefited  by  the 
large  fees  he  asked  for  them.  Practically,  among  them,  they 
vivisected  him,  performing  new  and  unheard  of  operations, 

26 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

running  through  Rontgen  Rays  and  radium,  electricity,  and  the 
introduction  of  innumerable  bacilli,  and  micrococci  and  phago- 
cytes, torturing  the  patient  under  chloroform,  or  ether,  or  half  a 
dozen  new  anaesthetics,  delaying  disasterously  the  inevitable  end, 
to  their  own  great  pecuniary  advantage  and  self-glorification, 
but  never  to  the  patient's  well-being. 

Terence  Ranmore  should  have  been  allowed  to  go  out  like  a 
soldier,  like  a  sportsman,  not  have  been  kept  back  like  a  Chinese 
prisoner  until,  under  daily  torture,  his  manhood  left  him,  and 
his  speech.  His  mind  went  before  he  did,  and  all  the  fineness 
of  him.  It  was  pitiful  to  see  the  wreck  they  made  with  their 
knives  and  their  drugs.  And  he  crossed  the  dark  river  in  the 
end,  all  beaten  and  helpless  and  moaning,  with  his  courage  gone. 
That  is  what  science  did  for  Terence,  while  it  wrung  his  mother's 
heart  for  a  few  weeks  of  hopeless  hope,  when  Margaret  wilted 
to  a  shadow,  and  Berry's  young  shoulders  bent  under  the  sus- 
pense he  carried,  and  his  dark  eyes  under  their  heavy  brows 
were  just  caverns  of  trouble  and  despair. 

There  was  no  red  Ranmore  to  succeed  Terence,  only  black 
Derry.  And  he  wanted  neither  title  nor  estate,  but  only  the 
right  to  work  at  the  profession  he  had  learned,  and  the  love  of 
his  aunt  and  his  cousins,  and  the  memory  of  his  home  with  them 
at  Ranmore,  the  only  home  he  had  ever  known,  to  carry  with 
him  to  a  new  world. 

This  prospect  had  been  for  Derry  Malone,  the  young  cousin 
whom  Terence  and  the  Duchess  had  loved  like  a  younger  brother, 
and  treated  like  one.  For  Derrick,  Lord  Ranmore,  must  be 
another  fate. 

They  carried  Terence's  body  back  to  Castle  Ranmore  when 
he  was  past  torture.  Lady  Ranmore  and  the  Duchess  of  Tow- 
cester  went  with  him,  two  women  out  of  whose  world  the  light 
had  gone.  Derry  traveled  with  them,  although  he  saw  little  of 
them  on  the  way.  Most  of  the  time  his  head  lay  on  the  coffin, 
he  was  whispering  to  what  rested  inside,  reiterating  the  promises 
he  had  made,  vowing  himself  to  his  cousin's  memory.  He  would 
keep  it  green  and  sweet.  All  during  the  journey  he  was  remem- 
bering kindnesses,  and  many  gifts,  and  that  Terence  had  never 

27 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

patronized  him,  but  had  just  been  a  friend,  and  more  than  a 
brother  to  him.  And  the  good  shot  he  was!  All  the  familiar 
phrases  and  jests  they  had  had  together  came  back  to  him  on 
this  sad  long  journey,  just  Margaret  and  Terence  and  he,  though 
he  was  only  a  distant  cousin,  a  boy  without  a  father  or  mother, 
and  with  his  way  to  make,  coming  from  school,  and  later  from 
the  workshop  in  Belfast,  to  revel  in  the  wild  freedom  of  Ranmore 
and  in  all  their  wealth  of  kindnesses.  Then,  he  thought  of  the 
boat  Terence  had  taught  him  to  sail,  and  the  fish  Terence  had 
taught  him  to  catch,  and  the  colt  Terence  had  taught  him  to 
ride.  .  .  .  And  now  he  was  journeying  to  Dunmanway,  with 
Terence  boxed  up  like  this! 

The  last  stage  was  perhaps  the  worst. 

The  ill-lit,  end-of-the-world  station  was  alive  with  keening 
peasantry  carrying  torches.  It  was  his  own  people  would  bear 
the  Ranmore  to  his  last  resting-place.  The  night  was  dark,  and 
all  the  way  as  they  went,  up  the  village  street,  and  through  the 
sculptured  archway,  down  that  long  avenue  of  trees,  all  the  miles 
as  they  walked,  the  keening  grew  wilder,  and  mingled  with  the 
wind  that  moaned  about  them,  and  the  rain  that  fell  pitilessly. 
It  was  to  the  mausoleum  in  the  grounds  they  would  bear  him. 
And  it  was  Micky  Clarke  and  Jerry  Malachy  and  Cormac 
O'Daly  who  carried  him,  as  they  had  carried  his  young  father 
fifteen  years  before,  who  had  been  drowned,  almost  wiihin 
sight  of  his  wife,  when  the  storm  burst  on  Bantry  Bay,  the  great 
storm  of  1887.  Strange  were  the  sounds  the  peasants  made  as 
they  marched;  the  sound  of  their  voices,  and  the  sounds  their 
feet  made  in  the  mud,  and  in  the  wet,  and  among  the  fallen 
autumn  leaves  in  the  long  avenue,  were  muffled  funeral  music. 
Deny  walked  with  the  bearers,  and  the  mother  and  daughter 
walked,  side  by  side,  at  the  head  of  the  procession  in  their  long 
black  robes.  All  the  household  servants  were  there,  and  the 
priests.  Always  as  they  moved,  the  procession  grew. 

And  then  they  came  to  the  mausoleum,  the  gray  building 
quarried  out  of  the  same  stone  that  served  for  all  the  hovels  of 
the  village.  Generations  of  Ranmores  lay  on  shelves  in  its 
gloomy  depths.  But  there  was  room  for  Terence. 

28 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

They  halted  at  the  little  chapel,  and  laid  their  burden  down, 
while  the  priests  said  the  mass,  and  chanted  the  burial  service. 
Always  the  wind  and  the  rain  and  the  keening  followed  the 
prayer — like  waves  the  sad  sounds  beat  upon  the  ears.  It 
seemed  long  hours  during  which  Derry  had  heard  nothing  else. 
Unconsciously  it  had  soothed  and  quieted  him.  It  was  for 
Terence  they  were  all  grieving — Terence,  sunny,  red-haired, 
laughing  Terence!  They  must  leave  him  behind  in  the  cold 
and  gloomy  dark  of  that  musty-smelling  ruin  of  a  mausoleum, 
round  which  he  and  Derry  had  played  in  the  days  that  seemed 
so  near.  Consecutive  thought  was  suspended,  everything  was 
unreal,  and  he  a  shadow  among  the  unrealities. 

It  was  all  over  at  last.  And  there  were  whisky  and  food, 
with  the  comfort  of  reminiscence,  and  a  community  of  sorrow, 
for  the  peasantry  and  the  household  in  the  servants'  quarters. 
There  were  loneliness  and  heartbreak  for  the  mother,  glassy- 
eyed  and  silent  in  the  solitude  of  her  bedroom,  whither  she  would 
not  let  even  Margaret  follow  her. 

For  Margaret  and  Derry  too,  in  the  great  murky,  oak-raftered 
dining-room,  trying  to  swallow  a  mouthful  of  food,  although 
there  were  no  words,  there  was  a  sense  of  companionship.  The 
time  had  not  come  for  words,  some  day  they  would  talk  about 
him  to  each  other;  now  fatigue  and  grief  paralyzed  them. 

"You'll  stay  with  us,  Derry?"  Margaret  said.  It  was  the 
first  time  she  had  spoken.  Margaret  was  an  English  Duchess, 
but  the  heart  of  her  was  Irish;  she  knew  her  duty  would  call 
her  back  soon  to  the  husband  who  was  no  partner  of  her  joys 
or  sorrows,  and  the  home  that  was  so  poor  a  substitute,  with  all 
its  grandeur,  for  Ranmore  in  its  desolation.  "You'll  stay 
with  mother  if  she  wants  you,  Derry  ?" 

"She  hasn't  looked  at  me,  nor  spoken  to  me,  since.   ..." 

"You  must  give  her  time.  You  know  there  was  no  one 
but  him  since  father  died.  I  didn't  count.  I  shan't  count 
now.  She  won't  let  me  into  her  room.  She  is  all  alone 
there." 

"Alone,  is  she?"  he  repeated  mechanically,  but  conscious 
of  the  loneliness. 

3  29 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"We  sent  Biddy  to  her  with  food;  but  Biddy  is  sitting  on  the 
floor  outside  the  door  with  her  head  covered,  rocking  herself 
to  and  fro,  and  talking  to  herself.  She  nursed  him,  you  know. 
Mother  has  barred  her  door.  I  don't  know  what  to  be  at." 

The  dining-room  was  so  large  and  so  gloomy,  with  its  black 
oak  walls  and  rafted  ceilings,  and  the  few  candles  in  their  wall- 
sconces  and  on  the  table  made  so  little  effect  of  light  upon  it, 
that  Rosaleen  was  beside  them  before  they  knew.  Such  a 
soft  step  she  had,  and  so  quietly  had  she  come  into  the  room 
that  they  were  not  conscious  of  her  till  she  answered  Margaret 's 
despairing  "I  don't  know  what  to  be  at"  with: 

"Will  you  let  me  try?  She's  used  to  me  waiting  on  her  of 
late.  She  wouldn  't  take  me  to  London  when  she  was  sent  for, 
but  she's  used  to  me  here." 

There  was  a  sudden  stirred  remembrance  in  both  of  them 
when  they  looked  at  her,  when  she  paused  for  an  answer, 
framed  in  the  heavy  lintel  of  the  door.  It  was  dim  and  con- 
fused to  Margaret — something  Terence  had  said  of  his  mother 
being  kind  to  her;  it  was  acute,  and  like  a  sword  in  his  heart  to 
Deny.  She  was  a  tragic  figure  in  her  poor  black.  Rosaleen 's 
wonderful  great  gray  eyes  had  sunk  back  in  her  head,  and  chalk- 
white  was  the  small  face,  the  thin  lips  indrawn.  She  was  only 
a  poor  dependent  in  the  house,  only  the  daughter  of  O'Daly, 
the  rent-collector,  who  had  been  murdered  in  the  bad  times 
that  had  gone  by.  Rosaleen  was  the  daughter  of  O'Daly 
and  his  Protestant  wife.  What  had  she  with  Lord  Ranmore, 
or  Lord  Ranmore  with  her?  And  she  was  but  a  child  still. 
The  blue-black  wonder  of  her  hair,  and  the  slender  grace,  the 
light  that  had  been  wont  to  play  upon  the  demure  sweetness 
of  her  face,  the  quick  smile  and  the  dimple  it  brought,  which 
had  begun  only  last  summer  to  mean  so  much  for  Derrick  and 
for  Terence,  meant  nothing  to  Margaret,  Duchess  of  Towcester. 
How  should  it  ?  She  was  merely  a  servant  in  the  house,  educated 
by  their  charity,  brought  back  here  to  serve  them,  as  her  father's 
people  had  served  them  for  many  generations. 

Yet,  perhaps,  even  then  the  Duchess  had  her  misgivings. 
All  the  household  was  mourning  for  the  dead  master,  but  the 

30 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

mourning  in  the  face  of  Rosaleen  O'Daly  had  in  it  some  strange 
quality.  It  was  not  only  Death  upon  which  the  girl's  eyes 
were  looking,  it  was  Terror  and  Despair.  Terror  perhaps  had 
passed,  it  was  despair  that  was  wild  in  her  eyes. 

"Is  it  Rosaleen  O'Daly?"  asked  Margaret,  to  gain  time, 
but  knowing  well.  "Don't  stand  there  by  the  door.  Come 
in,  yes,  you  go  up — see  what  you  can  do  for  her.  A  cup  of 
tea  now,  or  coffee?  Think  what  would  be  the  best  to  tempt 
her  with." 

"She'll  not  want  food  now  that  his  lordship  is  dead,"  Rosa- 
leen's  voice  had  the  mournful  cadence  the  Irish  accent  holds 
so  well —  "but  maybe  she'll  drink  her  tea."  She  and  Margaret 
talked  a  little,  and  busied  themselves  with  a  tray.  But  Derry  's 
heart  had  turned  to  water.  What  was  it  Terence  had  said  to 
him,  and  what  was  it  he  must  do  ? 

Rosaleen  proved  successful  where  Biddy  had  failed.  As 
she  said,  Lady  Ranmore  was  used  to  her.  A  year  now  she 
had  waited  on  her,  neat-handed  and  quiet.  Terence's  mother 
unbolted  the  door  to  her  voice,  and  Rosaleen  passed  in  with 
the  tray.  Broken  down  with  grief  and  strain  and  fatigue, 
perhaps  Lady  Ranmore  felt  the  comfort  of  the  quiet  tendance. 
Once  even  she  spoke;  she  seemed  to  have  noted  the  girl's  face, 
too,  for  she  said: 

"Ah!  you're  all  grieving  for  him  the  night." 

"An'  for  you,"  said  Rosaleen  quickly. 

Then  she  knelt  by  her  quite  suddenly,  her  voice  loud  and  her 
eyes  wild. 

"Ah,  me  lady,  me  lady!  If  ye  kill  me  I  must  ask  ye.  Did  he 
say  anything  ?  Did  he  tell  you  anything  ?  Me  lady,  it 's  lost  I 
am.  ..." 

Perhaps  all  the  blood  had  been  drained  from  Lady  Ran- 
more's  heart,  and  all  the  human  kindness  coagulated,  these 
last  days  of  watching.  The  kneeling  figure  was  nothing  to 
her,  the  words  fell  with  no  meaning  on  the  grief-dulled  ears. 

"Was  there  never  a  word  he  said  to  ye?"  the  girl  sobbed, 
"and  him  that  promised.  ..." 

Now  she  was  prone  on  the  floor,  crying  wildly,  and  a  dim 

31 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

resentment  stirred  in  the  mother's  heart  that  anyone  but  she 
should  cry  like  this  for  her  son.  Her  eyes  were  dry,  and  her 
heart  empty.  She  had  sent  away  Biddy,  for  Biddy's  keening 
shook  her  dry  heart,  and  burnt  her  dry  eyes.  Now  here  was 
this  girl,  who  knew  so  little  of  him,  who  had  not  nursed  him 
in  her  arms  as  Biddy  had,  nor  followed  his  first  toddling  steps 
.  .  .  and  she  making  that  noise  on  the  floor. 

Lady  Ranmore  sent  her  away  quickly  and  harshly.  She 
could  not  bear  the  grief  that  cried  out  to  be  beside  hers  that 
was  beyond  tears.  She  drove  the  girl  away  from  her,  she  even 
said  a  bitter  word  or  two  out  of  her  own  bitterness,  a  word  that 
showed  the  girl  she  must  not  even  weep  for  Lord  Ranmore. 
It  was  only  to  his  mother  his  memory  belonged. 


CHAPTER  III 

THOSE  first  gray  days  dragged  by  slowly.  Deny  hung 
about,  more  miserable  and  resentful  when  some  obse- 
quious hireling  called  him  "my  lord,"  than  when  an 
old  retainer,  grown  dense  in  the  Ranmore  service,  showed 
his  feeling  in  furtive  diverted  glance,  and  hurried  shuffling 
away  from  him.  For  there  was  luck  with  the  red  Ranmores, 
and  Terence  had  been  born  and  bred  among  them;  but 
there  was  no  luck  with  the  black  Ranmores.  And  Deny  was 
hardly  a  Ranmore  at  all,  seeing  that  the  mother  that  bore  him 
was  a  "furriner,"  and  his  father  but  a  younger  son  of  a  younger 
son,  unknown  from  Dunmanway  to  Bantry. 

Lady  Ranmore  could  not  bear  to  look  upon  the  new  heir; 
that  was  clear.  She  remained  in  her  own  room,  and  what 
business  she  had  to  transact  she  transacted  there,  seeing  law- 
yers from  London,  and  lawyers  from  Cork,  making  no  sign  as 
to  what  was  going  on.  The  Duchess  stayed  as  long  as  she 
could,  but  her  time  was  drawing  near,  however  loath  she  was 
to  go. 

For  many  years  now,  ever  since  her  husband's  death  had 
made  it  possible  to  reduce  expenses,  Lady  Ranmore  had  been 
nursing  the  estate  for  Terence,  and  Terence's  children.  It 
was  a  dream,  an  obsession,  a  passion  with  her,  to  restore  Ran- 
more to  what  Ranmore  had  been  a  hundred  years  ago,  before 
the  Saxon  rule,  and,  be  it  lowly  spoken,  the  habits  of  half  a 
dozen  reigning  Ranmores,  had  despoiled  them  of  their  acres, 
and  left  the  big  pile  of  the  castle  more  than  three-fourths  a  ruin. 
She  had  her  jointure,  and  that  paid  the  mortgage  interest;  she 
had  the  rents  during  Terence's  long  minority,  and  they  paid 
builders  and  contractors.  Already  one  wing  was  restored, 
and  the  stables  were  rebuilt.  Then  there  had  been  rumor 
of  coal,  and  much  money  had  been  sunk,  although  as  yet  with 

33 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

poor  result.  And  on  the  fourth  portion  of  the  nine  thousand 
unproductive  acres  of  swamp  and  bogland,  rock  and  mountain, 
that  stretched  from  Dunmanway  to  Bantry,  and  from  Bantry 
to  the  sea,  an  English  company  had  taken  the  lease  of  a  copper 
mine.  Some  day  "royalties"  would  come  in  from  this.  But 
that  day  was  not  yet.  The  accumulated  rents  had  been  spent, 
and  the  whole  income  from  the  jointure.  Terence  had  been 
supposed  to  economize  in  Ranmore  six  months  in  every  year, 
and  to  be  no  spendthrift  in  London.  Margaret  guessed  there 
would  be  debts,  of  which  her  mother  must  not  hear.  She  and 
Deny  put  their  heads  together  time  after  time  in  those  few 
days,  and  wrote  to  bookmakers  and  motor-car  builders,  and 
everyone  of  whom  they  could  think,  telling  them  to  wait  with 
their  claims,  and  everything  would  be  paid  by  the  Duchess. 
The  accounts  must  be  sent  to  Dunstans. 

"He  wanted  her  not  to  know,"  they  said  to  each  other; 
and  each  knew  the  other  would  help  to  keep  his  name  sweet. 
Derry  had  excuse  enough  for  opening  letters  addressed  to  Lord 
Ranmore.  He  knew  nothing  of  his  own  pecuniary  position, 
and  he  had  a  curious  sensitiveness  about  asking.  It  could 
wait,  everything  could  wait,  but  keeping  Terence's  debts  or 
difficulties  from  that  poor,  broken-hearted  woman  upstairs. 
It  was  Quixotism,  perhaps,  but  then  Derry  was  Derry,  and 
faithful  to  the  trust  Terence  had  placed  in  him.  There  were 
bills  for  jewelry,  and  some  that  were  difficult  to  understand, 
and  all  of  them  had  to  be  kept  from  Terence's  mother.  As 
the  days  went  on,  and  more  bills  came,  the  less  it  seemed  that 
they  could  talk  about  them,  even  to  each  other.  "He  was 
always  open-handed,"  Derry  said  sometimes,  wistfully,  apolo- 
getically. The  Duchess  only  gathered  up  the  bills. 

Yet  all  might  have  been  well,  the  improvements  proceeding, 
and  all  the  attempts  persevered  with  to  preserve  the  Ranmore 
acres  and  the  Ranmore  prestige.  For,  in  truth,  Lady  Ran- 
more's  mind  was  not  made  up.  Twenty  years  she  had  lived 
for  this,  for  Ranmore  and  Terence.  She  wanted  so  little  for 
herself;  always  her  eyes  had  been  on  the  future,  when  the  feet 
of  Terence's  children  should  echo  in  the  empty,  dismantled 

34 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

rooms,  and,   in   the  fair  domain  she  had  created  for  him,  he 
would  reign  with  them  among  his  people. 

"I  had  thought  to  hear  thy  children  laugh  with  thine  awn  blue 

eyes, 
But  my  sorrow's  voice  is  silent  where  my  life's  love  lies." 

She  had  only  progressed  as  far  as  this  in  the  void  his  death 
had  made,  her  trouble  only  beginning  to  emerge  definitely  as 
unbearable,  the  first  shock  had  hardly  worn  off,  when  that 
occurred  which  turned  it  to  a  maelstrom  of  anger — unreason- 
able, perhaps,  as  anger  is  invariably.  After  that  her  actions 
became  inconsequent,  and  the  unbearable  sense  of  injury  she 
nurtured  toward  the  Providence  that  had  wrenched  her  beloved 
from  her  became  diverted  against  the  heir  who  stood,  ungainly 
and  awkward,  in  the  shoes  of  Terence. 

Deny  sinned  unwittingly.  Again  and  again  in  those  days 
that  succeeded  the  funeral  he  had  sought  for  an  interview  with 
Rosaleen  O'Daly.  He  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  at  twilight, 
in  the  sodden  evening — a  hurried,  uncertain  glimpse  from 
afar.  She  had  vanished  ere  his  long  legs  had  covered  the  ground 
betwixt  him  and  her.  He  had  heard  a  light  and  furtive  step 
at  dawn  and  had  scrambled  into  his  clothes  and  started  in 
pursuit.  But  always  she  had  evaded,  eluded  him,  and  they 
had  no  speech  together. 

Yet  only  last  summer,  when  he  and  Terence  had  been  here, 
and  she  shy  and  new  among  them,  Deny  had  had  long  talks 
together  with  her,  and  he  had  seen  into  her  simple  heart,  full,  like 
his  own,  of  gratitude  and  loyalty  to  the  Ranmores,  bent  on  ser- 
vice. She  had  clung  to  her  connection  with  the  family;  what 
was  there  else  to  which  she  could  cling?  She  had  not  even  the 
religion  of  the  country.  For  her  mother  had  been  an  O'Brian 
from  Tralee  and  a  bitter  Protestant.  Everyone  knew  Mike 
O'Daly  had  carried  off  his  wife  without  a  "with  your  leave"  or 
"by  your  leave"  to  her  family.  And  a  handsome  man  he  was, 
Rosaleen  had  told  Deny,  who  could  well  believe  it,  for  whom 
any  woman  would  have  left  her  home.  But  a  hard  man  he 
grew  after  her  death,  oppressing  the  tenantry  to  get  money  for 

35 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

that  gay  Lord  Ranmore,  Terence's  grandfather — he  who 
built  the  stables  and  had  the  race-horses  and  could  drink  any 
man  in  Cork  county  under  the  table.  Terence 's  father  had  been 
drowned  in  Bantry  Bay  before  his  grandfather  had  spent  all 
there  was  to  be  spent.  He  had  been  drowned  just  two  days 
after  Rosaleen's  own  father  had  been  shot,  in  broad  daylight, 
by  "them  land-leaguers,"  it  is  believed,  who  had  never  been 
caught — no,  not  to  this  very  day. 

Rosaleen  was  only  nine  years  old  when  this  happened.  It 
was  Lady  Ranmore  who  had  sent  her  to  the  convent  of  the 
Sacred  Heart  and  had  her  taught  and  cared  for,  but  stipulating 
she  should  retain  her  religion,  as  O'Daly  had  promised  her 
mother.  And  now  here  she  was  back  at  Ranmore  with  my 
lady  herself,  to  sew  for  and  tend,  when  the  young  lord  was 
away  with  his  regiment  or  up  in  London,  and  she  lonely  with 
neither  him  nor  Her  Grace  at  Ranmore. 

Deny  had  drawn  some  analogy  between  himself  and  the 
girl.  For  were  not  both  of  them  orphans  and  dependents  on 
the  big  house?  And  the  only  Protestants  there.  And  some 
day,  when  she  was  grown  up — some  day — well,  he  thought  of 
what  he  would  ask  her  some  day,  when  he  had  made  himself 
a  position,  and  she  had  left  off  laughing  when  he  tried  to  be 
serious  with  her.  He  would  let  her  know  the  tenderness  that 
was  growing  with  him.  For  indeed  she  was  still  but  a  child 
that  summer,  with  her  hair  like  a  cloud  about  her.  The  gray 
eyes  would  dance  and  glint  with  demure  merriment  at  any 
little  thing,  the  dimples  coming  and  going  in  her  smiling.  She 
would  not  be  serious  with  him  for  long;  she  did  not  want  to 
listen  when  he  would  talk  seriously.  "Standing  with  reluctant 
feet,  where  womanhood  and  childhood  meet";  it  was  not 
Deny  who  would  force  her  too  soon  to  cross  the  line.  That 
summer  it  was  the  child  in  her  he  loved.  He  was  but  a  boy 
himself,  and  all  their  life  was  before  them. 

Terence  it  was  who  said  she  was  the  prettiest  colleen  he  had 
seen  from  Killarney  to  Bantry — ay,  and  from  Cork  either. 
And  he'd  never  shut  his  eyes  on  a  pretty  girl.  But  Terence, 
Deny  thought,  had  taken  but  little  notice  of  her;  he  had  no 

36 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

long  talks  with  her  as  Derry  made  opportunity  for  while  they 
were  here  together.  True,  Terence  had  stayed  on  in  July 
when  Derry  went  back  to  finish  his  course  and  get  through  his 
examinations. 

And  never  had  a  doubt  crossed  his  mind,  until  it  struck  him, 
like  a  blow  between  the  eyes,  that  day  in  the  weighing-room, 
where  Terence  lay  dying. 

Every  word  Terence  said  was  like  the  writing  on  the  wall. 
And  every  night,  as  if  written  in  phosphorescent  letters,  Derry 
saw  it  in  the  darkness  against  his  dreams.  And  now,  in  those 
dreams,  too,  he  saw  Rosaleen's  altered  face  and  haunted  eyes. 
And  always  when  he  thought  of  her  his  heart  turned  to  water. 
Speak  with  her  he  must,  and  yet  he  dared  not.  What  he  might 
learn  might  prove  unbearable;  yet  he  hardly  knew  what  it  was 
that  he  feared.  Terence  had  told  him  to  care  for  Rosaleen. 
But  always  he  would  have  cared  for  her;  he  had  no  other  hope 
so  dear  as  that  he  might  care  for  her  always.  Only  now — 
now  he  feared.  There  was  more  woman  than  man  in  Derry 
Ranmore,  for  all  his  size  and  his  dark  looks;  and  he  dared 
not,  what  he  yet  must  dare.  For,  had  he  not  sworn  it  to  Terence  ? 
And  what  he  did  in  the  end  was  done  in  the  wrong  way,  and 
perhaps  at  the  wrong  time.  He  had  his  promise  to  Terence 
to  fulfil,  and  her  hunted,  terror-stricken  eyes  never  left  him  all 
these  days. 

It  was  when  hardly  a  week  of  them  had  passed,  that  he  was 
sent  for  to  his  aunt's  room.  When  she  was  a  happy  woman, 
she  was  a  very  kind  one,  and  the  boy  had  been  almost  as  a  young 
son  to  her;  while  she  had  been  all  the  mother  he  had  known. 
And  as  a  son  he  loved  her,  although,  perhaps,  he  was  a  little  in 
awe  of  her,  as  a  real  son  would  not  have  been.  But  she  had 
never  thought  of  him  as  Terence's  heir.  That  Terence's  sun 
should  go  down  had  been  the  one  inconceivable  thing.  Now 
in  her  new  misery,  that  harsh  garment  into  which  she  could 
not  fit  herself,  which  exacerbated  and  fretted  her  beyond  her 
strength,  it  seemed  that  this  Derry,  this  common-clay  Derry, 
so  insignificant  for  all  his  size,  and  rude  strength,  must  have 
always  known,  always  been  waiting,  expecting,  hoping.  .  .  . 

37 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

When  she  had  sent  for  him,  he  stood  there,  so  awkward,  so 
big  and  shuffling  on  his  feet,  so  unlike  the  graceful,  bright, 
blue-eyed  laddie  of  hers,  that  she  averted  her  eyes,  she  could 
not  bear  to  look  upon  him.  Was  he  waiting  to  hear  her  say 
that  now  Ranmore  was  his?  Oh!  how  it  wrung  her  heart, 
to  think  she  should  never  see  Terence  installed  there,  him  that 
was  the  darling  of  her  heart;  how  like  physical  pain  it  was  to 
picture  Deny  there  in  his  place!  Some  moments  passed 
before  she  could  speak.  Derry  was  just  full  of  sorrow  for  her, 
and  that  made  him  more  awkward,  for  he  could  not  find  the 
words  in  which  to  tell  her  how  he  felt  about  it  all.  She  looked 
critically  at  his  rough  hands,  and  shuffling  feet,  and  rough- 
hewn,  big  head.  Perhaps  he  had  forgotten  to  shave  this  morn- 
ing, and  his  hair  was  unkempt.  It  was  terrible  to  think  he 
must  be  Lord  of  Ranmore. 

Her  grating  misery  made  her  voice  harsh.  She  had  no 
thought  of  Berry's  sensitiveness,  nor  of  what  he  felt;  she  did 
not  think  of  him  loving  Terence  and  mourning  him,  and  want- 
ing nothing  the  dead  boy  had  left,  except,  perhaps,  a  little  of 
the  kindliness  that  had  been  as  an  atmosphere  about  him  always, 
especially  here  in  his  home. 

"I  sent  for  you  to  know  when  I  must  leave  the  home,  that 
was  my  husband's  and  my  boy's." 

She  had  not  meant  to  say  that.  The  sight  of  him  standing 
there,  in  Terence 's  place,  stung  her  to  it. 

"Leave — leave  here!"  he  stammered. 

"Well,  it's  no  news  to  you  that  his  place,  that  the  Castle  is 
yours?" 

"It's  God  forbid  you  should  go  out  of  it,"  he  said. 

"To  stay  and  see  you  in  his  place!" 

Oh,  how  they  hurt  each  other,  she  with  her  contempt,  it  was 
hatred  he  felt  behind  her  words — and  he  with  nothing  but 
honor  for  her,  and  such  a  sorrow  that  it  overflooded  speech! 
Her  scorn  lashed  him  and  bewildered  him,  he  stood  tongue-tied 
before  her.  But  beyond  him  she  heard  Terence's  happy 
fluency,  the  gay  and  loving  words,  and  felt  the  arms  he'd  fling 
about  her  .  .  .  gone,  gone  forever.  ...  It  was  Derry 

38 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Malone  standing  awkwardly  there  where  he  should  have 
been. 

She  tried  to  be  calm.  These  days  and  hours  she  had  kept 
to  herself,  it  was  that  she  might  meet  them  all  with  some  measure 
of  composure,  that  she  might  hide  her  broken  heart,  enwrapping 
herself  from  the  pity  that  would  break  her  down.  But  her 
reasonless  resentment  against  Deny  grew  all  the  time.  It 
makes  one  cruel,  the  agony  of  being  a  mother  without  a  son! 

"I  won't  keep  you  long.  You'll  like  to  be  out  looking  at 
your  grounds  and  the  new  stables  and  all." 

He  could  only  gaze  at  her;  the  bitterness  was  so  new  and 
unexpected,  driving  him  to  say  he  knew  not  what.  He  had 
not  thought  of  the  grounds,  nor  the  stables,  nor  anything  of 
his  own.  All  he  wanted  was  that  if  Terence  could  not  be  here, 
she  and  Margaret  should  be  here;  that  he  might  feel  he  had  a 
home.  It  was  for  them,  not  Ranmore,  that  he  cared. 

"What  I  wanted  to  ask  you  was,  what  arrangement  we  could 
come  to,  so  that  I  could  come  here  every  year,  for  just  one 
week." 

And  then  she  looked  away  from  him,  and  through  the  win- 
dows, and  over  beyond  the  Park.  The  mausoleum  was  out 
of  sight,  although  she  saw  it  so  plainly,  and  the  old  chapel,  and 
all  the  graves  of  all  the  Ranmores.  Her  breaking  heart  was 
melting  in  tears,  but  her  voice  was  hard.  "  One  week  in  every 
year  I  want  to  come  here,  to  ...  to  mourn  my  dead." 

He  knew  that  every  year  since  Terence's  father  had  been 
brought  home  there  had  been  a  week  of  prayer  and  mourning 
at  Ranmore:  the  chapel  had  been  opened,  candles  burned,  and 
masses  said  for  the  dead. 

"An  arrangement!"  he  repeated  stupidly. 

"To  rent  the  castle  from  you,  I  must  have  the  whole  place 
to  myself  just  one  week  in  the  year.  I'll  pay  you  for  it.  There 
is  no  entail,  it  is  only  the  Castle  and  just  a  bit  of  land  about  it 
that  goes  with  the  title.  I  suppose  you  know  that.  And  that 
I  can  claim  against  you  for  the  improvements.  I'm  not  saying 
I'm  going  to  do  it,"  she  added.  The  improvements  she  had 
made  for  Terence,  and  the  children  that  should  come  after  him.  .  .  . 

39 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Her  heart  was  like  water,  but  still  her  voice  was  harsh.  She 
had  not  meant  to  say  this,  but  now  she  felt  it — that  she  must  be 
alone — that  she  could  not  bear  for  him  to  be  there.  It  was 
her  place,  her  home,  they  were  her  dead.  What  was  he  but 
a  Malone,  an  Ulsterman,  a  Protestant?  She  had  been  own 
cousin  to  her  husband,  and  a  Ranmore  in  direct  descent.  Every 
minute  the  bitterness  grew. 

"Is  it  money  you're  offering  me  for  the  place  you've  made 
home  to  me?"  he  said  stupidly.  But  she  took  no  heed  of  the 
pain  in  his  voice,  she  was  thinking  only  of  her  own  unbearable 
bereavement. 

"I'll  go  out  of  it  this  night,  if  I'm  not  welcome  with  you," 
he  went  on,  dully;  "and  I  see  I'm  not  that.  I  stayed  on  because 
Margaret  asked  me,  and  there  was  something  Terence  asked 
me  to  do,  and  I've  not  been  able  to  do  it  yet." 

"Something  Terence  asked  you  to  do?"  The  tone  lashed. 
"You!" 

And  Deny  blundered  on: 

"He  asked  me  to  take  care  of  Rosaleen  O'Daly  .  .  .  it's 
fond  of  her  he  was .  .  .  . " 

"What  are  you  saying?  What  is  it  you're  saying?  Asked 
you  to  take  care  of  Rosaleen — Rosaleen — O 'Daly's  daughter, 
me  own  maid!  And  my  Terence — my  boy  asked  you  to  be 
looking  after  her!  It's  lies  you're  telling  me." 

"I'm  telling  you  the  truth.  He  said  it  to  me  when  he  thought 
he'd  no  more  words  to  say.  Often  I've  heard  it  since:  'Take 
care  of  Rosaleen,'  he  said." 

It  had  only  needed  this  to  make  his  position  there  impossible. 
She  told  him  that  he  lied,  and  that  he  knew  he  lied.  She 
said  that  the  girl  had  befooled  him,  and  might  have  tried  to 
befool  Terence,  who  was  kind  to  everybody,  worthy  or  unworthy, 
himself  included. 

If  she  had  not  remembered,  even  as  he  was  speaking,  that, 
when  that  wire  came  telling  of  the  disaster  at  Sandown,  the 
girl,  who  had  been  with  her,  had  dropped  in  a  faint  at  her  feet, 
and  been  useless  for  the  journey  or  the  packing,  or  anything; 
if  Lady  Ranmore  had  been  able  to  blot  out  the  despairing 

40 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

words,  and  the  pleading  ...  if  any  of  these  memories  had 
not  been  with  her,  she  might  not  have  been  so  fierce  in  her 
denial,  so  violent  in  her  denunciation.  She  said  the  girl  was 
lying  to  secure  her  place.  But  out  she  should  go  that  very 
night.  The  shock  came  on  the  top  of  so  many  other  shocks. 
It  was  not  strange  the  girl  had  lifted  her  eyes  to  Terence. 

Again  as  in  a  vision,  pain  blurred,  the  gay  charm  of  him 
was  before  her.  And  Rosaleen  O'Daly!  It  was  impossible, 
incredible  that  he  should  have  given  her  grounds  to  think  he 
had  looked  back  to  her.  Out  she  should  go — out. 

It  was  only  a  sudden  jealousy,  a  sudden  anguish  of  jealousy. 
Her  son  was  to  her  what  other  sons  are  to  loving  mothers. 
And  purity  is  the  birthright  of  Irish-women.  That  there  had 
been  romance  or  love-making  between  Terence  and  the  girl, 
and  Terence  had  stooped  a  little  in  kindness  was  all  that  was 
possible.  But  even  that  was  hard  to  bear;  and  that  Derry 
should  bring  her  word  of  it,  was  harder  still. 

Derry  was  dismissed  with  the  words  ringing  in  his  ears  that 
Terence's  mother  would  turn  Rosaleen  from  the  door;  that 
it  was  a  slander  he  was  uttering,  for  Terence  would  have  never 
degraded  himself  to  look  at  O'Daly's  daughter.  The  wicked- 
ness of  her  to  say  that  he  had!  Derry  carried  away  an  impres- 
sion of  fury  and  implacability,  and  he  felt  desperately  that 
it  was  he  who  had  stirred  up  all  this  against  the  girl  whose 
champion  he  should  have  been.  And  all  his  confused  thoughts 
resolved  themselves  into  a  hurried  decision  to  find  Rosaleen, 
tell  her  what  had  occurred,  and  of  his  promise  to  Terence,  vow- 
ing himself  to  her  service.  When  he  had  done  that,  he  would 
leave  Ranmore,  he  would  wipe  the  dust  of  Ranmore  from  his 
feet.  It  wasn't  as  Lord  Ranmore  he  saw  himself  at  the  moment, 
it  was  as  an  interloper,  an  intruder  into  the  family.  Where 
he  had  been  most  sensitive,  there  he  was  most  wounded.  It 
was  as  an  enemy  Terence's  mother  had  talked  to  him,  while 
nothing  but  love  and  tenderness  had  been  in  his  mind  toward 
them  all. 

Had  Derrick  by  happy  chance  been  present  at  the  inter- 
view which  took  place  between  Margaret  and  her  mother 

41 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

later  in  the  day,  he  would  have  learned  that  the  first  words 
of  an  angry  woman  are  not  the  last  words;  and  much  trou- 
ble might  have  been  averted,  that  was  brought  about  by  his 
misapprehension. 

For,  by  the  afternoon,  when  Lady  Ranmore  had  thought 
round  and  about  the  position,  had  sent  for  Rosaleen,  only  to 
be  told  she  was  nowhere  to  be  found,  and  finally  had  decided 
to  voice  her  new  grievance  against  Deny  to  the  Duchess,  much 
of  her  rage  and  rancor  had  left  her.  Grief  was  back  again 
in  full  sway.  It  was  kind  to  the  girl  Terence  wanted  her  to  be, 
and  the  last  thing  she  thought  of  doing  was  carrying  out  her 
threat  to  turn  Rosaleen  from  the  Castle.  If  it  were  the  truth 
that  she  had  lifted  presumptuous  eyes  to  Terence — and  indeed, 
and  indeed,  who  was  there  that  had  not  loved  him  ? — she  would 
hear  all  about  him  from  her;  they  would  talk  of  him  together. 

By  the  time  the  idea  had  sunk  into  her  mind,  it  had  become 
more  than  bearable.  Neat-handed,  gentle-footed,  patient, 
everything  that  a  young  girl  should  be,  Rosaleen  O'Daly  had 
proved  since  they  sent  her  from  the  convent  to  wait  upon  her 
patroness.  The  Duchess  must  go  back  to  her  husband,  and 
it  was  alone  they  would  be  together,  she  and  Rosaleen:  they 
could  talk  of  him,  perhaps  the  talk  would  help  her  awful  heart- 
ache. She  knew  she  could  not  bear  it  alone  much  longer. 
Sometimes  she  felt  her  reason  was  giving  way  under  it.  He 
had  left  a  gap  so  wide  there  was  nothing  for  her  to  hold  on 
to;  the  whole  world  was  a  void,  it  was  a  black  chasm  he  had 
left  behind  him. 

When  Margaret  came  to  her  that  same  day,  in  the  twilight, 
Lady  Ranmore  talked  first  of  Deny,  of  his  inferiority  and 
unfitness  for  his  position.  She  spoke  of  him  with  bitterness. 
Margaret  reminded  her  gently  that  Terence  had  always  been 
fond  of  him,  that  Terence  said  it  was  a  fine  man  he  would 
make. 

"You  must  remember  it's  half  heart-broken  he  is.  He  is 
not  thinking  of  his  position  at  all." 

Perhaps  Lady  Ranmore  saw  him  less  a  schemer  and  an 
intruder  than  she  said.  She  asked  her  daughter  presently, 

42 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

it  had  been  in  her  mind  all  the  time,  but  it  was  only  at  the  end 
she  brought  it  out. 

"Did  you  hear  anything  from  our  darling  boy  that  day  about 
Rosaleen  O'Daly  ?  Did  he  speak  of  her  to  you  at  all  ?" 

"Yes.  It  was  something  he  wanted  to  ask  Deny,  or  tell  him 
about  her." 

"And  what  was  it  he  said?" 

"Something  about  you  being  kind  to  her.  I  did  not  quite 
understand  why  he  should  doubt  it.  But  he  spoke  to  Deny 
after;  there  had  been  some  love-making  between  her  and  Deny, 
I  think.  And  now  that  he  was  to  come  into  the  title  and  every- 
thing, perhaps  Terence  doubted  that  Deny  would  go  on  with 
it.  She  looks  terribly  ill  and  unhappy.  Has  she  said  any- 
thing to  you,  or  you  to  her?" 

"It  was  Terence  himself,  I  understood  Deny  to  say  ..." 

"Terence!     Rosaleen  O'Daly  and  Terence!" 

"It  wasn't  easy  not  to  love  him." 

"Oh!  I  think  you  are  mistaken,  mother.  And  yet  .  .  . 
she  does  look  dreadfully  unhappy  .  .  .  she  could  not  have 
thought  that  Terence.  .  .  .  Oh,  mother!  poor  girl,  if  that  is 
so.  But  I  can't  believe  it.  You'll  be  kind  to  her,  if  it  is  that, 
you'll  be  kind  to  her,"  Margaret  pleaded.  "If  she  took  him 
seriously,  perhaps  .  .  .  but  what  does  it  matter  now?" 
Margaret's  unready  tears  began  to  flow.  What  did  it  matter 
now  if  Rosaleen  O'Daly  thought  Terence  had  been  in  love 
with  her,  or  she  with  him  ? 

"I'll  not  have  her  thinking  she  is  to  grieve  for  him  differently 
from  the  rest."  Lady  Ranmore  said  doggedly,  tears  behind 
her  words,  "for  who  was  it  that  could  help  loving  him?" 

"Oh,  mother,  don't  be  hard!  You've  grown  so  hard.  Sure, 
it's  only  a  child  she  is,  gather  her  in  your  arms  and  comfort 
her.  That's  what  I'd  do  if  she'd  let  me;  if  she  is  grieving  so 
for  him.  Now  I  mind  it,  she  looks  like  death.  We  must  be 
good  to  her." 

That  was  the  talk,  and  there  was  none  of  the  rancor  against 
the  girl  that  Deny  had  heard,  and  believed  in  so  absolutely. 
It  served  possibly  to  distract  Lady  Ranmore's  mind  a  little. 

43 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Perhaps  that  night,  instead  of  black  sleeplessness  and  moaning 
over  her  desolation,  she  bethought  her  of  what  she  should  hear 
from  Rosaleen,  of  what  Rosaleen  would  tell  her  of  his  words. 
She  was  sure  there  had  been  no  love-making,  or  but  little  love- 
making,  yet  perhaps  some  talk  between  them.  And  she  would 
hear  that — the  very  words  of  him,  and  how  he  looked  when 
he  spoke  them.  And  dimly  she  hoped  that  she  might  feed 
her  grief  upon  his  remembered  words,  until  it  broke  to  tears, 
the  slow  tears  for  want  of  which  her  eyes  burned  in  those  black, 
sleepless  nights,  when  all  she  knew  was  that  she  had  no  son. 
She  had  little  rancor  against  Rosaleen  that  night.  It  was 
against  Derry  her  reasonless  jealousy  grew,  against  Derry, 
who  was  here  in  Terence's  place. 

But  when  the  morrow  came,  there  was  neither  Rosaleen 
nor  Derry  to  be  found.  And  the  blunder  had  been  made 
irreparable. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AFTER  seeking  her  so  many  days,  it  was  strange  that 
Derry  should  have  found  Rosaleen  that  very  morning, 
not  ten  minutes  after  he  had  left  his  aunt's  room.  His 
heart  was  aflame  with  Lady  Ranmore's  injustice,  and  his 
slow  brain  was  hardly  working,  or  it  was  working  backward. 
He  knew  he  would  leave  Ranmore.  They  had  made  him 
welcome  there  always,  it  had  always  been  his  home;  now  he 
was  no  longer  welcome  there.  He  would  go  to  where  Terence 
lay  in  his  coffin,  Terence  who  had  been  own  brother  to  him, 
and  kneel  there  to  say  good-bye;  then  he'd  go  to  the  Sisters  of 
the  Sacred  Heart  and  tell  them  Rosaleen  must  go  back  to  them. 
After  that  he  would  leave  Ranmore.  He  was  so  sore  and  hurt 
when  he  left  his  aunt's  presence,  that  his  thoughts  were  as 
wild  as  hers.  He  rushed  to  Terence,  where  he  lay  in  that 
narrow  coffin,  hearing  nothing,  and  answering  nothing,  to 
the  wild  cry  of  the  boy.  Derry  was  but  a  boy  as  yet,  and  he 
cried  out  against  injustice. 

"  You  know  it's  not  your  place  I'm  wanting,  Terence.  You 
know  I'd  have  given  my  life  for  yours,  and  been  proud  to  do 
it!  Oh!  Terence,  Terence,  if  you  could  only  come  back  to  us!" 
This  relieved  his  bursting  heart  a  little;  then,  with  his  eyes  still 
full  of  tears,  he  stumbled  along  the  little  path,  all  overgrown 
and  soft,  that  led  to  the  chapel.  When  he  got  to  the  chapel,  the 
door  was  open.  He  was  not  of  their  faith,  but  the  open  door,  or 
his  bursting  heart,  or  some  unknown  hand  led  him. 

She  was  there,  sure  enough,  this  Rosaleen  whom  he  had 
been  seeking,  but  for  the  moment  had  forgotten  to  seek,  lying 
all  huddled  up  by  the  altar  steps,  sobbing  as  if  her  own  heart 
would  break.  All  the  words  he  heard  her  utter  were  just: 
"Oh,  Mother  of  God!  Oh,  Mother  of  God!  And  what  shall 
I  do?  What  shall  I  do?" 

He  had  no  courage  .    .    .  the  misery  of  her!    There  was  a 

4  45 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

trembling  on  him,  and  his  knees  were  unsteady,  so,  for  all  that 
he  was  a  Protestant,  he  fell  upon  them,  beside  her.  And  the 
prayer  he  put  up  wildly  was  that  he  might  fill  Terence's  place. 
It  was  Terence  who  had  won  her,  and  God  alone  knew  what 
he  had  done  to  her.  But  Terence  had  told  him  he  was  to  help 
her.  He  had  not  voice,  nor  words,  nor  strength,  while  she 
sobbed  so  wildly,  the  slender  slip  of  a  girl,  the  girl  that  had 
laughed  at  him,  with  the  soft  light  in  her  eyes,  and  the  thin 
sweet  lips,  such  a  short  while  ago;  it  was  little  but  a  child  she 
was  now.  How  she  shook,  like  a  leaf  in  the  wind! 

"Let  me  die,  Mother!  Mother  of  God,  let  me  die!"  She 
was  a  Protestant,  too,  but  convent  bred,  and  the  prayers  she 
had  heard  so  often  came  easiest  to  her  lips. 

Nights  and  nights  she  had  had  of  sick  fear,  not  grief,  only 
fear.  Cold  fear,  and  terror,  and  despair,  had  walked  with  her 
in  the  dreadful  day,  and  lay  beside  her,  through  the  dreadful 
nights.  What  Terence  had  had,  he  had  taken  unfairly,  and  not 
won.  Terence  was  the  master  here,  and  all  she  had,  she  owed 
the  Ranmores.  But  it  was  not  blaming  him  she  was,  only 
herself.  She  had  listened  to  the  soft  voice  and  pleading  of  him; 
she  had  fought  against  him,  but  she  had  yielded.  She  had  been 
unsafegu^,rded  through  her  very  innocence.  .  .  .  But  she 
would  make  no  excuses  for  herself,  it  was  a  wicked  girl  she  had 
been,  and  now  all  the  world  would  know.  He  had  promised, 
here,  in  this  very  chapel,  before  the  Image  of  the  Blessed  Mother; 
he  had  vowed.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  cruel  enough  story,  but  the  rights  of  it  Deny  could 
not  draw  from  her,  neither  then  nor  ever.  Neither  of  them, 
she  in  her  despair,  and  he  in  his  trouble,  could  be  ought  but  ten- 
der over  the  memory  of  the  dead  man. 

"He  said  he  loved  me  so  dearly;  it's  married  we'd  be  before 
the  fall.  .  .  .  Oh!  Mother  of  God,  and  what '11  become  of 
me  now?"  she  moaned.  She  had  taken  little  heed  of  Deny, 
she  was  beyond  heeding.  But  she  had  not  resented  his  pres- 
ence there,  and  something  of  strength  and  courage  returned 
to  him,  for  he  had  to  help  her,  he  could  not  bear  her  grief.  He 
was  only  a  boy,  and  sobbing,  too,  now  beside  her. 

46 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"The  Mother  of  God,  she's  just  a  plaster  image  there,  and 
the  paint  gone.  It's  me  you  must  turn  to;  he  told  me  all  about, 
and  I  '11  find  the  way  to  help  you.  Be  done  with  your  cryin'." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Deny,  but  it's  past  help  I  am!  I  want  to  be 
dyin'.  And  what  will  she  say  when  she  knows?  And  him 
that  promised!"  She  could  not  check  her  wild  sobbing,  although 
she  tried  while  he  talked  to  her,  groping  for  the  soothing  word, 
and  telling  her  she  had  been  Terence's  last  thought.  She 
had  not  heard  a  word  of  that  before;  now  she  was  listening  to 
him,  hanging  on  his  words,  remaining  on  her  knees,  chilled 
and  trembling  on  the  cold  flags,  but  listening. 

"It's  neither  of  us  is  wanted  here,"  he  said  at  length.  "I'll 
take  you  away  from  here." 

That  showed  her  a  gleam  of  hope,  although  the  firmament 
was  so  black  that  she  hardly  recognized  it.  It  had  seemed 
there  was  nothing  before  her  but  to  stay  here,  where  all  the 
world  would  get  to  know  of  her  trouble,  and  look  scorn  at  her, 
and  never  know  it  was  himself  who  said  that  vows  before  the 
Blessed  Mother  were  as  good  as  being  wed.  He  was  dead, 
and  they'd  never  believe  what  he  had  promised.  She  rocked 
herself  to  and  fro,  and  broken  phrases  came.  .  .  . 

What  did  it  matter  Mr.  Berry's  hearing?  Her  pride  was 
in  the  dust;  she  was  but  a  broken  thing  before  him.  She  would 
drown  herself  the  day,  for  it  was  drowning  she'd  thought  of 
every  night  since  he  died.  Often  she'd  pictured  it.  She  knew 
the  lake  that  had  no  bottom  to  it,  the  lake  that  lay  between  the 
rocks,  no  trees  nor  rushes  near  it,  the  lake  on  Gabriel.  She 
had  seen  it  once,  one  happy  picnic  day  out  from  the  convent. 
She  could  take  the  train  to  Bantry,  and  from  Bantry  'twas  but 
three  hours'  walking;  and  then  she  could  throw  herself  down, 
and  her  body  would  never  be  found.  Mayhap  she  should  have 
done  it  before  .  .  .  but  'tis  hard  to  die  at  seventeen.  Then 
the  tears  flowed  again,  for  Berry's  words  touched  the  bitter 
fountain  of  them. 

"It's  not  fit  to  live  I  am,  you  can't  help  me;  it's  past  help  I  am." 

"I'd  find  the  way  to  help  you,  if  I  had  to  crawl  all  me  days 
on  me  hands  and  knees.  Rosaleen,  he  bade  me  do  it.  It  was 

47 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

you  he  was  thinking  of  all  the  time  he  lay  dying.  And  he  made 
me  swear  it  to  him.  I  '11  not  be  false  to  my  oath.  I  'm  going 
to  find  a  way.  'Swear,'  he  said  to  me,  'Deny,  swear.'  You 
were  in  his  mind  all  the  time.  That  ought  to  comfort  you. 
'It's  only  Rosaleen  I'm  thinking  of,'  or  words  like  that  he  said, 
again  and  again." 

She  had  stopped  crying  now,  but  she  was  still  crouching 
on  the  ground,  listening,  yet  saying  over  and  over  again  that 
she  was  only  fit  to  die.  He  told  her,  thinking  it  was  the  only 
way  to  comfort  her,  of  Terence's  anxiety  for  her,  straining 
truth  a  little,  perhaps.  But  it  was  not  that  which  soothed  her, 
it  was  the  human  sympathy,  the  first  sympathy  she  had  known 
in  these  weeks  since  the  cruel  telegram  came,  following  so  soon 
on  Terence's  letter,  when  he  had  told  her  to  keep  her  heart  up; 
the  letter  which  had  answered  her  first  shamed,  fearful  cry  to  him. 

Deny  blundered  on  in  the  only  way  he  knew.  Terence's 
mother  had  said  she  would  turn  Rosaleen  out  of  doors  if  she 
claimed  that  Terence  had  been  in  love  with  her.  Well,  she 
was  claiming  that  Terence  had  promised  to  make  her  his  wife. 
Never  a  doubt  had  Derry  that  he  would  have  done  it.  But 
now  all  the  country-side  would  point  scorn  on  her,  and  there 
was  no  shelter  nor  pity,  and  she  but  a  child  still. 

"You'll  come  away  with  me  this  very  day,"  he  said,  for  his 
strength  grew  with  her  consciousness  of  her  need  of  it.  "I'll 
find  a  place  for  you  away  in  London  while  we're  thinking 
what  to  do.  Neither  of  us  is  wanted  here.  I  '11  be  own  brother 
to  you,  Rosaleen,  if  you'll  trust  yourself  to  me.  I'll  take  care 
of  you,  and  it  will  all  come  right.  You've  no  call  to  be  talking 
of  dying,  it's  living  you've  got  to  be;  and  helping  me  to  keep 
my  word  to  Terence." 

There  was  hope  in  his  words,  and  it  was  small  wonder  that 
she  listened  to  him.  She  had  no  money,  and  no  knowledge 
of  any  world  that  lay  beyond  the  convent  or  the  castle  grounds. 
She  had  tried  to  think  of  herself  as  Terence's  wedded  wife,  for 
he  had  vowed  it  to  her  here,  before  this  very  altar,  with  the 
Mother  looking  down.  But  she  was  only  a  poor  girl,  for  all 
that,  and  no  priest  had  blessed  them.  And  she  wasn't  sure 

48 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

but  that  she  was  a  wicked  girl.  Only  Deny  comforted  her 
by  telling  her  she  couldn't  be  that,  for  Terence  had  meant  all 
he  said,  or  why  was  her  name  on  his  lips  when  he  thought  he 
was  speaking  his  last  words?  And  why  had  he  entrusted  her 
to  Derry? 

Their  plans  were  soon  made.  She  was  to  stay  where  she 
was  until  after  nightfall,  then  creep  back  to  the  house  for  her 
things.  And  Derry  would  go  back  now,  and  get  money  and 
clothes.  From  Dunmanway  station  they'd  start  this  very 
night  for  London ;  and  he  would  find  a  place  of  shelter  for  her. 
From  Cork  it  was  easy  to  get  to  Liverpool.  If  search  was  made 
for  them  it  would  be  in  Dublin.  But  it  was  to  London  they  'd 
go,  where  hiding  was  easy.  She  said  mournfully  that  none 
would  look  for  her.  It  seemed  to  Derry  that  perhaps  this  was 
true,  and  the  sadness  of  it  isolated  them  still  more  within  the 
stone  walls  of  that  little  chapel.  The  plaster  Mother,  with  her 
crude  blue  coloring,  and  the  Babe,  whose  gold  crown  was  half 
peeled  away  with  the  damp,  witnessed  a  stranger  scene  than 
when  Terence  had  taken  his  vows  before  the  altar,  and  tried  to 
reconcile  his  conscience  to  the  sin  he  had  committed.  No  subtle 
schemer,  or  sinner,  had  Terence  been,  and,  had  he  lived,  oppo- 
sition or  no  opposition,  he  would  have  made  amends.  But 
he  had  been  so  used  to  his  own  way,  and  being  given  what  he 
wanted,  that,  if  it  were  not  to  be  had  by  fair  means.  .  .  .  But 
it  is  horrible  to  write  about,  and  even  Derry  never  heard  the 
rights  of  it. 

Rosaleen,  too,  put  the  remembrance  as  far  as  possible  away 
from  her  when  she  went  forth  with  Derry  that  night,  neither 
of  them  seeing  where  their  journey  would  take  them.  They 
were  both  of  them  very  young;  it  is  only  very  young  people  who 
see  no  way  to  meet  trouble  but  to  fly  from  it,  never  heeding 
where  the  flight  may  land  them. 


CHAPTER  V 

LORD  RANMORE— for  henceforward  Deny  must  bear 
his  title — left  Ranmore,  taking  Rosaleen  O'Daly  with 
him,  less  than  a  week  after  his  cousin's  death.    He  knew 
nothing  of   his  means,  he  had  no  money  but  the  few  pounds 
he  carried  with  him,  and  at  first  he  was  even  reluctant  to  apply 
to  the  family  lawyers. 

It  was,  perhaps,  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  Rosaleen  went 
with  him  so  easily.  She  knew  what  was  right  and  wrong, 
but  very  little  of  how  wagging  tongues  put  wrong  construc- 
tions on  innocent  acts.  They  passed  one  night  at  Dublin, 
and  another  in  getting  to  Liverpool.  The  horrors  of  sea- 
sickness fell  to  Rosaleen's  share,  and  Derry  nursed  her,  for 
the  night  was  a  wild  one,  and  the  stewards  were  too  busy  to 
tend  second-class  passengers. 

In  London,  Derry  with  his  portmanteau,  and  Rosaleen 
with  her  shabby  bag,  stood  doubtfully  for  ten  minutes  in  the 
midst  of  a  yellow  November  fog  on  the  platform  at  Euston. 
Derry  questioned  a  friendly  porter,  who  recommended  him 
to  a  temperance  hotel,  somewhere  off  the  Tottenham  Court 
Road.  Rosaleen  was  in  no  fit  state  to  be  left  alone,  and  Derry 
was  in  no  mood  to  leave  her.  He  had  constituted  himself 
her  protector,  or  brother,  as  he  preferred  to  call  himself.  Every 
hour  they  had  been  together,  his  tenderness  toward  her  had 
increased.  It  is  like  this  with  chivalrous  natures.  She  clung 
to  him,  she  was  utterly  dependent  on  him,  poor  child  that  she 
was.  She  was  worn  out  with  all  the  sleepless  nights  she  had 
passed,  and  the  unaccustomed  travel,  and  the  strangeness  of  it 
all.  It  was  sleep  she  wanted  most,  and  after  the  cab  had  taken 
them  to  the  temperance  hotel,  Derry's  footsteps  paced  the 
dingy  coffee-room  uncertainly  before  a  friendly  chambermaid 
brought  him  word  that  sleep  had  come  to  Rosaleen. 

50 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

London,  in  a  dingy  temperance  hotel  on  a  foggy  November 
morning,  is  a  poor  place  for  right  thinking.  Deny  had  little 
notion  of  what  his  next  step  should  be.  He  felt  the  weight 
of  his  responsibilities;  but  the  sense  of  achievement,  and  the 
consciousness  that  he  was  carrying  out  his  vows  to  Terence, 
gave  him  a  new  sense  of  exhilaration.  He  was  happier  than 
he  had  been  since  Terence's  death. 

When  Derry  asked  for  a  room  for  himself,  the  proprietor 
of  the  hotel  very  naturally  wanted  to  know  who  his  clients  were, 
and  suggested  a  payment  on  account.  Derry  hesitated  about 
giving  his  own  name,  for  he  had  not  grown  used  to  it  yet.  And 
he  hesitated  more  in  giving  hers.  Yet,  had  not  she  a  right  to 
be  called  Lady  Ranmore?  A  better  right  than  his  own,  he 
thought,  if  the  truth  were  known.  But  the  hesitation  failed 
to  inspire  confidence,  when  he  said  at  length  that  they  were 
Lord  and  Lady  Ranmore.  A  temperance  hotel  off  the  Totten- 
ham Court  Road  was  not  the  usual  stopping-place  for  a  peer 
and  his  lady.  The  fly-blown,  green,  paper-covered  lampshades, 
the  dingy  oil-cloth  on  the  table,  the  early  Victorian  prints  in 
maple-wood  frames,  together  with  the  uncarpeted  floor,  a  stray 
text  or  two,  and  an  advertisement  of  a  new  mineral  water 
seemed  to  present  little  temptation  to  dishonest  travellers. 
Yet  the  proprietor  was  obviously  suspicious,  and  even  when 
Derry  offered  him  what  payment  he  wanted  in  advance,  the 
man  continued  surly  and  apparently  ill-satisfied.  He  said 
his  was  a  respectable  house.  Derry  said  it  ought  to  be  some- 
thing, for  it  was  damned  uncomfortable!  That  did  not  mend 
matters.  In  fact,  it  was  only  by  pulling  himself  together  at 
the  critical  moment,  and  remembering  that  Rosaleen  must 
have  her  sleep  out,  that  Derry  commanded  himself  and  the 
situation  long  enough  to  procure  the  hospitality  he  sought. 

Matters  looked  better  in  the  morning:  not  the  hotel — that 
was  dingier  than  ever,  more  fly-blown,  more  hideously  respect- 
able and  text-ridden,  and  the  food  past  praying  for;  but  affairs 
generally,  and  chiefly,  Derry's  own  spirits. 

For  Rosaleen  came  down  to  breakfast  with  him,  and  she 
looked  the  better  for  her  night's  rest.  The  dirty  Britannia- 

51 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

metal  teapot,  the  thick  white  teacups,  shop-eggs,  stale  bread 
and  salt  butter,  elicited  no  complaint  from  her.  She  looked 
better,  but  the  shadow  was  dodging  her  here,  too.  She  had 
put  herself  blindly  into  Derry's  hands,  but  she  did  not  know 
what  Deny  would  do  with  her.  Nor  did  Derry  himself  know. 

But  his  spirits  had  risen,  and  he  determined  hers  should 
not  fall  below  a  certain  point.  He  pressed  the  eggs  upon  her, 
and  called  for  more  bacon,  and  carried  the  situation  with  the 
sheer  simplicity  of  his  satisfaction  in  it.  Anyway,  he  was 
doing  something. 

"And  we're  free  as  air  here  in  London,"  he  told  her  trium- 
phantly. "There's  not  a  soul  knows  where  we  are,  and  we  can 
just  make  a  start,  and  go  our  own  way." 

"You'll  find  me  work  to  do?"  she  asked  him. 

"I'll  find  you  something;  don't  you  worry.  You  just  sit 
about  and  get  rested  when  you've  taken  your  breakfast.  I 
suppose  I  must  try  and  find  those  lawyers,  and  see  into  things 
a  bit.  Anyway,  we're  neither  of  us  with  those  who  don't  want  us." 

It  was  hard  for  him  to  keep  his  eyes  off  Rosaleen,  or  keep 
them,  when  they  did  fall  upon  her,  from  telling  her  how  pretty 
she  looked  this  morning.  There  was  little  doubt  why  his 
spirits  had  risen.  She  was  pouring  out  his  tea  for  him,  and 
there  was  not  one  but  him  to  look  after  her,  and  what  lay  be- 
hind was  done  with,  and  what  lay  before  them  could  wait. 
She  had  wound  the  great  plaits  round  her  head  in  what  seemed 
to  him  a  very  cunning  and  pretty  fashion.  Her  face  was  very 
pale,  and  her  gray  eyes  were  dark  and  mournful  still,  but  there 
was  some  color  to-day  in  the  sweet,  tremulous  lips,  and  he  was 
even  more  conscious  than  she  of  her  dependence  on  him. 

But  they  were  not  as  isolated  as  they  thought.  They  had 
been  seen  at  Liverpool,  and  that  their  destination  was  London 
was  known.  They  had  run  away  together,  and  what  complexion 
could  be  put  upon  their  elopement?  There  had  been  no  talk 
about  Terence  and  the  girl,  any  more  than  there  is  talk  about 
the  sun  when  it  kisses  the  tree-tops.  But  the  talk  waged  wild 
about  the  two  who  had  stolen  away  from  the  house  of  mourning, 
and  all  Ranmpre  waited  for  news  of  the  wedding.  They 

52 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

thought  shame  on  her  that  she  could  not  wait  until  Ranmore 
was  cold  in  his  coffin — Terence  was  still  Ranmore  to  them. 
Lady  Ranmore,  and  even  the  Duchess,  had  no  doubt,  from 
the  moment  the  news  of  the  elopement  was  authenticated  to 
them,  but  that  Derry  and  she  had  been  "carrying  on,"  and 
it  was  about  this  that  Terence  had  wanted  to  speak.  Terence, 
it  seemed  to  them  on  consideration,  had  wanted  to  ensure  that 
Derry,  when  he  succeeded  to  the  title,  should  not  ignore  his 
obligations,  and  it  was  for  Derry's  sake  he  had  pleaded  to  his 
mother  to  be  kind  to  her. 

That  was  the  reasoning  at  Ranmore,  although  there  was 
little  reasoning  against  the  feeling  of  all  that  the  moment  had 
been  inauspicious  for  love-making.  Tongues  wagged  harshly; 
even  the  Duchess  found  it  difficult  to  forgive  Derry  for  having 
acted  so  precipitately. 

Anger  against  Derry  steadied  the  world  a  little  for  Lady 
Ranmore.  The  relations  it  had  been  so  impossible  to  conceive 
as  between  Terence  and  the  girl  became  less  completely  incred- 
ible when  Derry  took  the  foreground  position  in  the  picture. 
Terence's  character,  wanting  no  burnish,  stood  out  the  brighter 
because,  on  his  death-bed,  he  had  been  anxious  the  right  thing 
should  be  done,  and  troubled  lest  Derry,  with  his  new  dignities, 
should  forget  his  old  obligations?  So  reasoned  Terence's 
mother  when  the  elopement  was  made  known.  She  was  very 
angry,  and  righteously  angry,  with  what  she  misread  so  definitely. 
In  her  anger  and  unreasonableness  generally,  she  resolved 
suddenly  on  what  she  had  up  to  the  time  of  the  flight  been 
but  dimly  contemplating.  She  would  wrench  her  heart  and 
thoughts  from  Ranmore.  She  had  a  good  jointure,  and  it 
had  been  poured  out  like  water  for  the  improvements.  Now 
everything  should  stop;  the  building  and  the  excavations  for 
coal,  the  cottage  industries  and  the  lobster-potting  down  by 
the  coast.  She'd  build  up  no  home  for  Derry,  and  the  baggage 
he  had  taken  with  him.  Perhaps  "baggage"  was  not  the 
word  she  used,  but  she  did  not  forget  what  was  due  to  the 
Duchess.  And  real  evil,  even  of  Derry,  she  was  slow  to  suspect, 
even  while  she  voiced  it. 

53 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Margaret  was  not  so  clear  about  it  all  as  Lady  Ranmore, 
nor  so  bitter;  although  she  was  very  shocked  at  Rosaleen, 
and  very  disappointed  in  Deny.  The  flight,  and  the  time 
chosen  for  it,  seemed  heartless,  and  cruel,  and  unnecessary; 
but  it  was  not  criminal.  She  had  to  urge  this  view  upon  her 
mother,  and  she  spoke  of  their  youth,  but  she  only  added  to 
her  mother's  anger,  and  brought  some  of  it  down  upon  her 
own  head. 

The  Duchess's  plea  for  Deny,  perhaps  a  little  half-hearted, 
for  she  was  sore  herself,  at  the  moment  over  his  desertion. 
Seemed  to  excuse  her  mother's  sudden  decision  to  abandon 
Ranmore,  to  let  it  fall  back  into  the  ruin  from  which  it  had 
still  only  half  emerged.  Anger  and  resentment  are  easier  to 
bear  than  grief.  Lady  Ranmore  nursed  her  feeling  against 
Derry,  and  sent  for  her  lawyer  to  give  effect  to  it 

But,  when  the  days  went  by,  and  no  news  came  of  the  wedding, 
the  Duchess's  conscience  grew  restless.  Lady  Ranmore 
might  nurse  her  grievances,  and  listen  to  Mr.  Carruthers' 
advice,  and  plan  reprisals.  The  Duchess  did  not  take  those 
reprisals  very  seriously  at  first;  it  was  good  for  her  mother  to 
have  a  grievance  to  occupy  her  instead  of  only  her  loss.  But 
Terence  had  been  troubled  in  his  mind  over  Rosaleen  O'Daly, 
or  over  Derry's  possible  treatment  of  her,  and  his  sister  could 
not  leave  things  to  take  their  course. 

She  had  to  leave  Ranmore,  and  take  up  the  duties,  never 
neglected,  that  she  owed  to  that  poor  derelict  Duke  of  hers. 
Passing  through  London,  however,  on  her  way  to  Dunstans, 
she  wrote  a  line  to  Mr.  Carruthers,  asking  for  Lord  Ranmore's 
address  in  London;  she  never  doubted  his  having  it. 

Before  this  incredible  elopement  had  taken  place,  she  and 
Deny  had  been  full  of  schemes,  in  which  the  lawyer's  help 
was  necessary  for  rounding  off  all  those  matters  relating  to 
Terence,  and  keeping  them  from  his  mother's  ears.  She  did 
not  doubt  but  that  Derry  would  carry  out  their  plan,  even  if 
his  own  affairs  had  become  entangled.  For  entanglement 
was  the  euphemism  with  which  she  now  began  to  cloak  the 
flight. 

54 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

The  contents  of  the  Duchess's  letter  were  given  to  Deny 
directly  he  called  upon  the  family  lawyer.  He  could  not  delay 
that,  for  his  funds  were  very  limited. 

After  the  information  had  been  conveyed  to  him  that  the 
Duchess  of  Towcester  was  seeking  his  address,  he  did  not 
wait  long  enough  at  the  lawyer's  office  to  carry  out  the  purpose 
of  his  call  there.  He  had  been  wasting  his  time  in  London, 
not  realizing  quickly  how  he  ought  to  act.  Now  it  came  at 
once  into  his  impulsive  head  that  his  cousin  would  befriend 
Rosaleen;  that,  in  taking  her  so  hurriedly  from  Ranmore,  he 
had  left  the  Duchess  out  of  his  calculations.  Margaret's 
heart  was  as  large  as  his  own. 

He  never  paused  to  think  of  the  inexplicable  things  he  must 
explain.  Outside  cog-wheels  and  machinery,  Deny  was  no 
tactician;  even  his  curious  sensitiveness  had  its  extraordinary 
limitations.  He  had  understood  the  story  Rosaleen  had  not 
told  him,  and  he  never  doubted  but  that  Margaret  would  under- 
stand it  as  easily.  The  harshness  of  woman's  judgment  on 
her  fellow-woman  is  strange  to  any  young  man's  mind,  and  this 
was  never  an  ordinary  young  man,  this  Deny,  who  had  made 
up  his  mind  for  all  time  that  the  laws  for  other  men  were  not  the 
laws  for  Terence  Ranmore. 

He  could  not  quite  blind  himself  to  his  own  feeling  for  Rosa- 
leen, although  he  could  subordinate,  and  keep  it  in  the  back- 
ground. That  he  might  have  to  suffer  through  his  action  never 
entered  his  head.  Had  it  done  so  it  would  have  made  no 
difference  to  his  conduct;  the  one  person  Deny  never  thought 
of  in  the  affair  was  Deny. 

It  had  not  been  worth  while  to  open  the  ducal  house  in  Bruton 
Street  for  the  night  or  two  the  Duchess  must  pass  in  town.  It 
was,  therefore,  at  Claridge's  Hotel  Mr.  Carruthers  told  Lord 
Ranmore  he  would  find  Her  Grace.  Derry  had  no  difficulty 
in  gaining  access  to  her.  His  unnecessarily  extravagant  han- 
som had  hardly  stopped  on  the  india-rubber  covered  approach 
to  that  fashionable  caravanserai,  before  a  uniformed  functionary 
with  a  hat  like  a  beadle's,  had  summoned  his  myrmidons  and 
sent  the  name  to  his  cousin.  Deny  had  a  bare  two  minutes  to 

55 


LET  THE  ROOF  PALL  IN 

wait  in  the  great,  luxurious  hall  before  a  page-boy  came  to  conduct 
him  upstairs.  The  hall  of  Claridge's  contrasted  very  favorably 
with  the  linoleum-covered  passage,  leading  to  the  coffee-room 
of  the  temperance  hotel,  that  Deny  had  just  left.  Not  more 
so,  of  course,  than  the  elegant  suite  of  rooms,  upholstered  in 
mauve  satin,  and  elaborate  with  primrose  window-curtains 
and  portiere,  where  he  found  the  Duchess  of  Towcester  awaiting 
him,  contrasted  with  the  bedroom  with  its  slip  of  drugget,  its 
deal  single  washstand,  and  its  rickety  chest  of  drawers  with  a 
Bible  on  it,  where  he  had  left  the  girl  he  had  taken  under  his 
charge. 

The  Duchess  stood  to  receive  him.  The  beauty  of  her,  with 
the  red-gold  pile  of  hair  against  her  mourning  robes,  her  bril- 
liancy and  fine  carriage,  although  she  was  the  pride  of  all  the 
Ranmores,  could  not  dazzle  the  eyes  that  were  fresh  from 
Rosaleen's  slender  charm.  But  although  he  was  not  dazzled 
nor  overwhelmed,  he  was  struck  dumb  by  her  greeting,  which 
had  rather  judgment  in  it  than  welcome,  and  was  unlike  any 
greeting  he  had  ever  received  from  Margaret. 

"I  asked  Mr.  Carruthers  for  your  address,  I  suppose  he  told 
you,"  she  began.  She  did  not  offer  to  shake  hands,  nor  did  she 
bid  him  sit  down. 

"Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  washed  my  hands  of  you,  and 
left  you  to  go  your  own  way,  as  my  mother  has  done.  It  could 
only  have  been  of  yourself  you  were  thinking,  when  you  ran 
away  from  us  like  that.  You've  angered  my  mother  terribly, 
estranged  her  from  you,  embittered  her.  It  was  a  cruel  slight 
upon  his  memory,  upon  all  of  us.  Why  couldn't  you  have 
waited;  why  didn't  you  confide  in  me,  and  him  not  dead  a  fort- 
night, and  so  much  to  be  done  for  him."  .  .  .  Her  feelings 
carried  her  away,  she  spoke  quickly,  almost  breathlessly.  It 
was  so  disloyal,  so  unlike  him.  "  Oh !  why  did  you  do  it,  Deny  ?" 

She  softened  even  as  she  spoke,  for,  indeed,  she  was  fond  of 
Deny,  and  so  had  Terence  been;  and  his  looks  were  not  furtive 
nor  guilty,  only  bewildered. 

"Why  couldn't  you  have  waited  until  we  had  got  over  our 
mourning  a  little,  and  the  strangeness  of  it?  You  could  not 

56 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

expect  my  mother  not  to  be  angry  with  Rosaleen,  stealing  away 
like  that.  She  has  always  been  so  good  to  the  girl,  and  she  had 
grown  used  to  her.  What  does  it  all  mean,  Deny?  But 
perhaps  I  should  not  ask.  Only  I  hate  to  think  ill  of  you. 
Why  have  you  not  married  her?  Is  it  carrying  out  what  he 
asked  you?  It's  shame  you're  bringing  to  the  girl,  and  to  all 
of  us." 

She  paused,  breathless,  having  poured  it  all  out  in  a  torrent, 
and  now  beginning  to  recognize  she  understood  it  less  than  ever. 

"If  you  cared  for  her  when  you  were  Derry  Malone,  you 
oughtn't  to  care  less  because  you  are  Lord  Ranmore.  Wras  it 
of  that  Terence  was  thinking?  And  did  he  know  you  better, 
after  all,  than  I?  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  of  you,  Derry; 
to  bring  shame  on  the  girl!  And  she  almost  a  child,  hardly  out 
of  her  teens.  And  what  is  to  become  of  her  life?"  But  even 
as  she  spoke,  she  hardly  believed  that  Derry  could  have  done 
this  thing.  There  must  be  some  mistake. 

"It's  no  shame  I've  brought  to  Rosaleen,"  Derry  answered, 
quite  taken  aback,  almost  sullenly.  The  attack  was  so  sudden 
and  unexpected  he  scarcely  knew  how  to  meet  it. 

"You  are  married  to  her,  then?  I  told  my  mother  I  was 
sure  that  was  how  it  was.  When  was  it?  Why  have  you  kept 
it  secret  from  me?  Did  Terence  know?" 

"I'm  not  married  to  her." 

His  heart  seemed  suddenly  to  beat  faster  than  it  had  beat 
before.  He  had  not  faced  it,  yet  this  had  been  in  his  mind 
before,  in  that  unforgetable  happy  summer.  But  it  was  Terence 
who  had  won  her.  It  was  not  surprising,  for  who  could  with- 
stand Terence  ?  But  that  thought,  too,  was  dim,  and  the  pain 
in  it  was  numbed  and  distant.  It  was  for  Terence  he  was  guard- 
ing her.  But  what  was  this  about  marriage?  Perhaps  it  was 
slow  to  dawn  on  him  that  this  was  the  way,  the  only  way.  It 
was  Margaret  that  was  bringing  light  to  the  slow  dawning. 

He  could  tell  Margaret  nothing,  having  meant  that  she  should 
have  guessed  everything.  For  before  he  had  time  to  speak, 
Margaret  was  telling  him  not  only  how  wrongly  he  had  acted, 
and  how  his  action  was  resented  at  Ranmore,  but  which  was 

57 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

the  only  way  to  repair  his  fault!  And  she  went  on  to  remind 
him  what  he  owed  to  the  girl,  and  what  Terence  would  have 
thought  of  it  all.  She  had  said  a  great  deal  before  she  waited 
for  him  to  answer,  overwhelming  him  with  it.  She  spoke 
quickly,  for  some  of  the  time  she  was  speaking  against  her  con- 
viction, though  always  in  accordance  with  what  she  thought 
was  her  duty,  and  the  right  thing  for  her  to  be  pointing  out  to 
him.  His  dark  face  flushed  as  he  took  it  in  slowly,  but  more 
quickly  than  he  could  answer  it. 

There  was  no  slur  on  Terence,  unless  he  put  it  there;  it  wasn't 
Terence  they  were  thinking  of  at  all!  What  was  it  that  she 
was  saying? 

"If  .  .  .if  your  hand  was  forced,  Deny?  I  don't  know 
what  to  make  of  it,  I  don't  want  to  begin  thinking  .  .  .it's 
so  unlike  what  I've  always  known  of  you,  it  is  so  difficult  to  under- 
stand. My  mother  and  I  thought  it  was  for  Terence  she  was 
fretting;  and  you  thought  so,  too.  At  least,  that  is  what  we 
understood.  Then  you  take  her  away,  out  of  my  mother's 
protection,  and  I  suppose  she  is  in  London  here  with  you  ?  We 
heard  of  you  at  Holyhead — and  Micky  was  on  the  boat.  Deny, 
if  my  mother  has  been  misled  about  her,  and  .  .  .  and  if  she 
is  not  a  good  girl  I  must  not  perhaps  press  you  to  marry  her. 
But  something  must  be  done,  you  must  let  us  do  something." 

"Good!  Good!  She's  better  than  untold  gold — a  jewel. 
God  bless  her,  and  it's  me  that's  not  worthy  of  her!" 

But  his  lips  went  dry,  and  all  at  once  he  saw  his  way,  and  his 
heart  was  vociferous. 

"Well,  you  know  best." 

She  felt  rather  cold;  sin  had  never  touched  her  closely.  Some- 
how she  had  not  anticipated  Derry's  attitude;  she  failed  to 
understand  it,  naturally. 

"But  you  are  not  married,  you  say?"  she  persisted. 

"As  yet  there's  been  no  talk  of  marriage  between  us."  His 
lips  were  dry,  and  his  words  came  with  difficulty. 

"Surely  it  is  very  wrong?" 

She  must  do  what  she  thought  right.  But  she  had  hoped 
he  would  have  met  her  differently. 

58 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  interfere.  You  may  say  it  is  no  affair 
of  mine,  you  are  a  man  grown,  and  I  am  only  your  distant  cousin. 
But  she  has  no  parents,  and  my  mother  was  her  guardian.  In 
a  way,  we  are  all  her  guardians,  and  her  father  died  in  our 
service.  .  .  ." 

"I'm  meaning  to  take  care  of  her,"  he  said.  His  eyes  were 
glowing  now.  Margaret  understood  less  than  ever.  In  truth 
she  hardly  wanted  now  to  press  this  marriage  on  him.  For 
she  was  only  a  normal  woman,  although  a  Duchess,  and  Deny 
was  the  head  of  her  house.  It  was  money  he  should  marry; 
the  more  so  now  that  her  mother  would  do  nothing  for  him. 
She  hesitated,  standing  there,  softening  toward  Deny,  harden- 
ing in  her  judgment  of  the  girl  who  had  led  him  into  this.  She 
said  a  hard  word  or  two  about  her,  tentatively,  and  that  lit 
Derry's  chivalry  to  a  blaze.  But  it  made  it  no  easier  for  him 
to  speak. 

"You're  blaming  her  for  what  was  no  fault  of  hers,"  was  all 
he  could  get  out.  "She  is  as  good  as  gold  .  .  .  a  jewel." 

"I  '11  not  believe  it  was  you  alone  that  thought  of  running 
away  from  us  all." 

"Is  that  what  they  are  all  saying  down  there?" 

"It  would  be  a  great  step  up  for  her,  of  course,  to  become 
Lady  Ranmore.  But  now,  now  that  you  ran  away  with  her 
and  have  been  nearly  a  week  together,  you  can't  expect  people 
to  look  upon  her  as  they  would  if  you  had  married  her,  as  indeed 
I  thought  you  had,  or  would,  at  the  first  possible  opportunity. 
You  say  there  has  been  no  thought  or  talk  of  marriage  between 
you."  Some  doubt,  or  perplexity,  some  misgiving,  faint 
enough,  but  there,  stopped  her  speech.  "  Is  there  some  explana- 
tion .  .  .  Derry?" 

And  then  what  came  into  her  mind  flushed  her  face,  and  low 
as  her  voice  went,  he  heard  the  fear  in  it.  She  had  come  in  an 
instant's  intuition  within  appreciable  distance  of  the  truth,  but 
turned  sick  and  faint  and  his  name  on  her  lips  was  as  a  plea  to 
him  for  denial. 

He  must  get  back  to  Rosaleen.  Of  course  there  was  no  other 
way.  It  had  been  coming  so  slowly  to  Deny,  perhaps  from 

59 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

the  time  he  heard  her  sobbing  in  the  chapel,  perhaps  when  he 
named  her  as  Lady  Ranmore  in  the  eating-house,  that,  when 
the  idea  was  full  born  before  him,  it  no  longer  seemed  strange, 
but  as  if  he  had  known  it  always.  Margaret's  voice  pleaded 
to  him,  and  her  eyes;  it  was  reassurance  he  must  give  her, 
hurriedly  and  completely.  There  must  remain  nothing  on  her 
mind  to  slur  Terence's  memory.  It  was  Terence  himself  had 
laid  this  charge  upon  him.  Rosaleen  would  do  it,  perhaps,  for 
Terence's  memory.  Would  she  do  it?  He  could  hardly 
answer  Margaret,  so  great  was  this  thought  that  had  come  to 
him.  But  Margaret  moved  nearer  to  him,  for  now  the  fear 
and  the  intuition  were  sharp. 

"Derryf  About  Terence?  There  was  nothing,  not  between, 
her  and  .  .  .  Terence." 

"What  is  it  you  are  thinking?"  he  said  roughly.  "There 
is  nonsense  in  what  you  are  saying.  I'm  going  back  to  Rosaleen; 
it  was  not  her  I  came  about  at  all,  but  the  bills  and  things. 
Now  you've  said  enough,  too  much.  Neither  you  nor  my 
aunt  will  have  anything  to  do  with  Rosaleen,  and  I  can't  expect 
it,  you  say!  Well,  and  I  haven't  asked  it,  nor  she  neither. 
We  came  away,  isn't  that  enough?  It's  .  .  .  it's  married 
we'll  be  soon." 

Derry  rushed  from  the  room  without  leave-taking,  in  anger, 
or  something  that  looked  like  it.  Margaret  tried  to  call  him 
back,  but  she  could  not  call  his  name  through  the  corridor, 
down  those  wide  steps  where  she  saw  him  running.  She  had 
gone  after  him,  she  had  not  meant  to  be  abrupt,  unkind,  and 
it  was  but  slowly  she  returned  to  that  elegant  suite  of  hers. 

Had  he  completely  reassured  her?  She  hardly  knew  what 
had  suddenly  given  her  that  shock  of  fear;  she  was  still  trembling 
from  it.  But  it  was  irrational  and  absurd,  no  wonder  Derry 
had  been  angry!  How  could  she  have  thought  .  .  .  ?  She 
would  leave  off  thinking.  Derry  was  but  a  boy;  she  would 
see  him  again,  and  yet  again.  There  was  plenty  of  time, 
he  must  not  spoil  his  life.  As  for  the  girl  .  .  .  well,  it  is 
not  to  be  supposed  that  the  Duchess  of  Towcester  thought 
very  kindly  of  Rosaleen  O'Daly. 

60 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

She  had  perforce  to  put  Deny  and  his  affairs  out  of  her 
mind  at  the  moment,  for  she  was  due  at  Dunstans.  Derelict 
as  he  was,  paralyzed,  a  mere  cumberer  of  the  earth,  with  a 
blank  mind,  and  only  a  body  needing  tendance,  she  had  been 
away  from  her  husband  long  enough.  She  must  see  Deny 
again — Deny  must  come  to  Dunstans.  It  is  possible  she 
thought  the  trouble  about  Rosaleen  would  pass  away.  She 
was  really  a  good  woman;  but  when  the  sudden  fear  that  had 
shaken  her  had  evanesced,  leaving  her  uncertain  as  to  when 
it  came,  or  why,  there  remained  a  sediment,  of  which  the  main 
ingredient  was  the  possibility,  the  hope,  that  she  might  hear 
no  more  of  Rosaleen. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  hansom  was  still  waiting  for  him,  the  horse  fidgeting 
decorously  on  that  india-rubber  pavement.  Derry  gave 
the  Tottenham  Court  Road  address  and  told  the  man 
to  hurry,  to  hurry  all  he  knew.  Clear  as  daylight  his  thoughts 
were  then — clearer  than  the  day  that  was  before  his  eyes  in 
the  murky  November  streets.  He  saw  Rosaleen  waiting  for 
him;  perhaps  her  eyes  would  brighten  when  he  came — those 
mournful  gray  eyes. 

Because  he  was  habitually  slow  of  thought,  now  the  reminis- 
cences and  the  certainties  jostled  each  other  too  quickly  for 
him  to  capture  or  marshal  them.  The  golden  summer,  the 
sparkle  and  promise  of  her,  the  secret  hopes  he  cherished  .  .  . 
then  Terence  in  the  weighing-room,  and  the  jar  of  his  words; 
Rosaleen  in  the  chapel.  .  .  .  Derry  became  convinced,  during 
that  drive  which  seemed  so  short,  that  what  he  was  going  to 
do  was  what  Terence  had  wished.  There  should  be  no  shame 
on  her  or  him.  It  was  Lady  Ranmore  she  should  be,  and 
that  as  soon  as  the  law  could  make  her.  Beyond  this  he  could 
not  go.  She  did  not  care  for  him  at  all;  it  was  Terence  who 
had  won  her.  But  that  must  make  no  difference,  since  Terence 
was  dead. 

If  happiness  for  himself  was  not  in  the  picture  he  was  draw- 
ing, it  did  not  seem  to  be  an  essential  factor.  He  had  always 
thought  little  of  himself,  of  the  size  that  spelt  awkwardness, 
and  the  muscle  that  was  only  of  use  in  the  workshop.  Next 
to  Terence  he  had  always  been  as  pottery  to  porcelain,  just 
rough.  And  she,  the  elegant  slip  of  a  girl  .  .  .  it  is  difficult 
to  credit  such  selfless  thoughts  as  Berry's,  yet  there  they  were. 
He  had  seen  a  sudden  fear  in  Margaret's  face,  and  he  must 
not  let  it  abide  there.  It  could  all  be  made  plain  and  easy. 
It  was  himself  that  must  take  Terence's  place.  He  anticipated 

62 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

no  opposition  from  Rosaleen;  it  was  so  easy  a  way  out  of  the 
tangle.  Let  come  what  may,  he  thought  vaguely,  though 
without  any  definite  premonition  of  what  might  come,  Rosaleen 
must  be  made  Lady  Ranmore. 

He  found  Rosaleen  just  where  he  had  left  her,  in  the  dingy 
coffee-room  of  the  dingy  hotel.  The  breakfast  things  had 
been  cleared  away,  and  luncheon  was  spread.  She  was  seated 
dejectedly  at  the  table;  now  and  again  she  had  been  staring 
into  vacancy,  into  the  dread  future.  Now  and  again  her  head 
had  sunk  down  in  shame,  the  beautiful  little  head  with  its 
coronet  of  black  plaits.  So  Deny  found  her.  There  was 
no  brightness  in  the  eyes  that  met  his,  they  were  almost  as 
mournful  and  hopeless  as  they  had  been  at  Ranmore.  For 
who  would  take  her  in,  or  find  her  work,  and  how  better  off 
was  she  here  than  there?  And  ah!  the  day! 

Deny  went  straight  to  the  point,  bungler  that  he  was.  Any 
intimacy  between  them  during  the  last  four  days  was  only  in 
his  constant  thought  of  her.  There  had  never  been  any  love- 
making,  since  that  unspoken  calf-love  last  summer,  the  love 
which  she  would,  perhaps,  have  read  in  time,  which  he  had 
begun  to  hope  she  was  reading,  when  he  went  back  for  his 
examination.  But  Terence  had  stayed  on  to  dazzle,  and 
bewilder,  and  carry  her  away.  A  bold  wooer  was  Terence, 
and  hard  to  parry  for  a  girl  with  only  a  conventual  outlook, 
and  she  a  dependent  in  his  house.  It  was  only  her  beauty 
that  had  counted  as  yet,  with  either  of  them.  Her  character 
had  hardly  begun  to  emerge  from  a  training  that  had  left  her 
without  volition.  She  had  had  the  disadvantages  of  her  Protes- 
tantism to  contend  with  both  in  and  out  of  the  convent;  and 
this  was  an  additional  misfortune.  For  else  there  would  have 
been  someone  to  whom  she  could  have  told  her  trouble,  even 
if  it  had  been  only  a  priest  in  the  confessional.  As  it  was, 
she  had  the  training  and  the  phrasing  of  a  religion  bereft  of 
its  essence.  Her  soul  and  temperament  would  have  to  push 
their  way  presently  through  all  the  human  muddlement  of 
her  education  and  final  disaster. 

"Rosaleen!  I've  something  to  tell  you.  I've  seen  my 

63 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

cousin;  she  says  we  ought  to  be  married,  coming  away  together 
like  we  did.  ..."  His  face  was  crimson,  and  his  breath 
was  as  hurried  as  if  he  had  been  running.  "And  I've  been 
thinking  she  is  right.  We'll  get  it  done  as  fast  as  possible. 
I'm  going  back  to  the  lawyer's  this  afternoon,  and  they'll  put 
me  in  the  way  of  it,  but  first  I  had  to  come  and  tell  you  what 
I  had  decided." 

There  was  only  a  look  of  bewilderment  in  the  little  mournful 
face,  and  no  hope  nor  lightening  at  all. 

But  then,  all  at  once,  she  could  not  face  him.  For  she  had 
thought  he  had  known!  But  now,  now  it  seemed  he  did  not 
know  at  all.  Marriage!  for  him,  and  for  her  .  .  .  her,  who 
was  .  .  . 

"You've  no  cause  to  be  taking  it  like  that,"  he  said,  for  he 
saw  that  she  was  crying.  He  saw  the  sudden  sobbing  that 
shook  her,  and  his  heart  ran  like  water  to  her,  but  he  dared 
not  touch  her  to  comfort  her,  not  even  a  hand  upon  her  shoulder. 
"It's  others  than  ourselves  we've  got  to  be  thinking  of,"  he 
said,  more  slowly,  "and  there's  no  other  way  to  prevent  them 
knowing." 

She  sobbed  on  a  little,  and  he,  standing  beside  her,  bent 
now  on  his  way,  put  it  to  her  again  that  there  was  no  other 
thing  to  do. 

Presently  her  sobs  grew  quieter,  and  she  lifted  her  head: 

"You're  not  understanding  ..."  Her  tone  was  past 
sadness,  she  went  quite  white,  as  if  she  would  faint;  not  meet- 
ing his  eyes,  desperately  determined  that  she  must  not  deceive 
him,  wishing  she  could  drop  down  dead  at  his  feet,  before  he 
knew  her  shame,  he  that  had  been  so  good  to  her.  .  .  . 

"I'm  understanding  well  enough!"  He  tried  to  take  her 
hands,  but  she  kept  them  locked  fast. 

"You  don't  want  me  to  touch  you,"  he  went  on;  "I  know 
that's  it's  meself  that  is  nothing  to  you,  your  heart's  in  the 
grave  with  him.  I'm  understanding  well  enough.  It's  not 
a  real  marriage,  I  ...  mean.  ..."  And  then  the  flush 
mounted  in  his  face.  "You'll  be  ...  you'll  be  ...  just 
as  you  are.  But  you'll  have  his  name,  and  no  one  will  look 

64 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

coldly  on  you,  and  that's  what  he  meant,  and  made  me  swear 
to  do.  ... "  Again  he  put  out  his  hand,  and  again  she  kept 
hers  locked. 

"Burden  you  with  me!"  she  cried,  and  then,  in  a  much 
lower  voice,  a  voice  he  could  hardly  hear,  added  the  words 
she  could  hardly  speak,  "Me  .  .  .  and  me  shame.  ..." 

"  It's  a  burden  I'll  bear  gladly." 

His  kindness  made  her  want  to  cry  again;  but  she  was  too 
cold,  and  too  faint,  and  too  frightened  to  cry.  She  rose  and 
moved  away  from  him,  toward  the  window,  gazing  out  on  the 
murk  .  .  .  she  could  speak  better  then,  and  he  was  waiting 
for  her  to  speak,  conscious  of  his  own  tongue-tiedness,  and 
now  of  his  growing  anxiety  for  her  acquiescence. 

"I'm  .  .  .  I'm  ..."  Her  face  was  turned  from  him, 
when  she  whispered,  "I'm  not  fit  for  the  likes  of  you." 

They  were  her  masters,  these  Ranmores.  Terence  had 
done  what  he  wished  to  her.  Mr.  Derry — how  big  he  was 
and  kind!  And  she  thought  he  had  guessed  her  secret,  but 
now  she  knew  she  had  been  mistaken.  Oh,  what  would  he 
think,  what  would  be  think  of  her  when  he  knew? 

"Go  away,  and  let  me  bide,"  she  said  passionately.  "Leave 
me  be,  Mr.  Derry,  there's  something  .  .  .  something  more 
you  ought  to  know.  I  ought  never  to  have  let  you  bring  me 
away.  I'm  not  the  girl  you  knew  ...  in  June." 

He  did  know ;  all  his  manhood  knew,  and  kept  the  knowledge 
in  leash.  For  he  must  not  think  harshly  of  Terence,  and  he 
must  not  hurt  her  with  his  knowledge.  He  had  to  handle 
this  delicate  thing  with  his  rough  hands. 

"It's  not  whether  you  are  fit  for  me,  or  I'm  for  you;  it's 
him  of  whom  we've  both  of  us  got  to  think.  They  won't  lose 
sight  of  you;  they  have  a  suspicion.  .  .  ."  Her  face  turned 
whiter,  and  a  shade  more  of  apprehension  deepened  in  her 
eyes.  His  face  was  more  flushed,  and  his  courage  stopped 
at  the  point  of  meeting  her  eyes. 

"It's  not  for  myself  I'm  asking  it.  'Don't  let  my  mother 
know'  and  'take  care  of  RosaleenJ  were  the  last  words  he  said 
to  me.  There  were  other  things,  too,  but  these  were  the  last. 

65 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

You'll  help  me  to  keep  my  promise  to  him.     It  will  be  all  the 
same  to  you." 

This  was  what  he  wanted  to  impress  upon  her,  that  it  would 
be  all  the  same  to  her!  His  chivalry  was  flaming  in  arms  for 
her,  and  it  was  as  a  brother,  as  a  protector,  as  a  guardian  against 
the  world,  he  was  looking  to  her,  not  as  a  bridegroom.  She 
was  no  bride  for  him,  he  knew,  it  was  Terence  she  loved,  to 
Terence  she  had  given  herself.  But  his  name  would  be  a 
shield  for  what  was  coming,  and  under  cover  of  it,  the  sweet 
head  might  be  held  erect.  He  did  not  look  very  far  into  the 
future — perhaps  he  dared  not  look.  He  had  had  a  dream 
about  her  once,  but  it  was  no  dreaming  he  was  doing  now. 
If  his  face  was  flushed  and  burning  and  he  had  to  hold  on  to 
his  courage  with  both  hands,  he  never  faltered  in  his  purpose. 
The  words  fell  upon  her  ears,  they  were  like  soft  vivifying 
rain,  she  could  not  see  his  face,  nor  hear  his  heart  pounding; 
but  as  the  words  fell,  the  dead  petals  of  hope  seem  to 
flutter. 

"'Tis  not  your  real  husband  I  want  to  be!"  Those  were 
the  words  .  .  .  "it's  to  give  you,  you,  and  .  .  .  and  him 
that's  coming,  the  name  that  belongs  to  you  both.  I'll  not 
trouble,  nor  come  near  you.  I  see  you  hate  me  to  come  near 
you.  But  it's  broken-hearted  Margaret  would  be,  and  his 
mother,  if  they  knew  he  had  left  you  like  this.  He  said,  'Don't 
let  my  mother  know;'  over  and  over  again  he  said  it  and  that's 
why  I'm  urging  you  to  let  me  do  what  he  would  have  done, 
if  ...  if  God  had  spared  him,"  his  voice  broke. 

Then  it  began  to  dawn  upon  her,  not  the  greatness  of  the 
sacrifice,  nor  the  greatness  of  the  heart  that  conceived  it,  but 
only  the  bare  husk  of  the  idea  that  Deny ,  to  save  Terence's 
name,  and  prevent  his  mother  and  sister  casting  blame  upon 
his  memory,  would  lighten  this  intolerable  burden  she  was 
bearing,  would  make  it  bearable.  It  was  incredible;  she  did 
not  believe  her  ears.  And  now  her  eyes  helped  her  no  better, 
for  his  avoided  them. 

"You'd  marry  me?"  she  repeated. 

"That's  what  I'm  begging  you." 

66 


LET  THE  ROOF  PALL  IN 

"To  keep  shame  from  his  name?"  Then  her  honesty 
impelled  her  further,  "it's  not  his  shame,  but  mine,  I'm  thinkin'." 
Her  voice  went  very  low  again. 

"It's  no  shame  for  either  of  you;  he  ...  he  made  his 
vows  to  you  on  the  altar  in  the  chapel.  If  he  had  lived,  he 
would  have  said  them  to  you  before  the  priest." 

Still  honesty  drove  her. 

"I'm  no'  so  sure,"  she  whispered.  Even  to  herself  she 
had  hardly  whispered  it  before. 

He  would  not  listen  to  that,  he  brushed  it  away.  Now 
all  he  wanted  was  that  she  should  not  oppose  him;  that  she 
should  agree  to  any  arrangement  he  might  make.  He  was 
so  considerate  of  her  feelings,  and  so  reticent  of  his  own,  that 
it  was  doubtful  if  at  the  moment  she  realized  all  he  was  offering 
her,  although  she  knew  she  was  not  strong  enough  to  refuse 
it.  But  some  misgiving  she  had,  and  an  overwhelming,  word- 
less gratitude.  He  pressed  the  point  that  it  was  for  Margaret 
and  Terence's  mother  this  marriage  was  necessary,  and,  to 
guard  his  memory  with  both  of  them;  neither  he  nor  she  came 
into  it,  they  were  of  so  much  lesser  importance.  And  she 
clung  to  that,  tried  to  see  it  the  way  he  would  have  her.  They 
were  not  to  look  upon  themselves  as  individuals,  but  just  as 
they  had  always  been,  as  dependents,  serving  the  family.  It 
was  the  way  he  felt  it  as  he  talked,  for  now  his  mind  was  fully 
made  up,  and  he  did  not  see  beyond  the  certainty  that  he  must 
give  Terence's  name  to  Rosaleen  and  her  coming  child. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MR.  CARRUTHERS,  to  whom  Deny  went  for  help  in 
complying  with  the  technicalities  of  the  English  mar- 
riage laws,  was  the  typical  lawyer  in  high-class  London 
practice.  He  had  the  capacity  for  withdrawing  all  person- 
ality from  any  case  presented  to  him,  and  clearing  it  of  any 
but  its  purely  legal  aspect.  Deny  was  now  Lord  Ranmore, 
and  there  was  a  considerable  number  of  points  to  be  made 
clear  before  the  estate  could  be  wound  up,  and  that  portion 
of  it  which  actually  belonged  to  him  handed  over.  That  is 
to  say,  if  anything  should  be  left  after  legal  charges  had  been 
met,  and  all  contingencies  fully  provided  for. 

Mr.  Carruthers  had  been  over  to  Ireland;  he  had  seen  Lady 
Ranmore,  and  met  the  lawyers  from  Cork.  He  was  fully  in- 
formed as  to  the  situation,  which  presented  difficulties  that 
would  take  time  to  unravel,  proving,  perhaps,  not  unremunera- 
tive  to  the  firm.  This  afternoon,  when  Deny  called  upon 
him  so  impulsively  to  help  him  to  get  married,  and  as  quickly 
as  possible,  Mr.  Henry  Carruthers  neither  queried  nor  pro- 
tested. When  he  understood  the  inquiry,  he  sent  for  his  head 
clerk,  and  asked  him  to  run  through  with  his  lordship  the 
various  ways  in  which  he  could  accomplish  his  desire.  He 
asked  if  there  was  any  question  of  settlements,  and  suggested 
that  in  such  case  there  might  be  difficulties  and  delays.  Derry 
brushed  the  question  aside  impatiently.  Beyond  the  question 
of  settlements,  any  marriage  Lord  Ranmore  was  contemplating 
had  no  interest  for  the  lawyer. 

Henry  Carruthers  was  tall,  thin,  and  carried  himself  with 
elegance;  he  wore  eye-glasses,  and  had  had  a  distinguished 
University  career.  He  had  been  called  to  the  Bar,  but  wisely 
marrying  the  daughter  of  a  solicitor,  he  became  convinced 

68 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

that  the  lower  branch  of  the  profession  would  suit  his  peculiar 
talents  as  well  as  the  higher,  and  accepted  a  partnership  in 
his  father-in-law's  firm.  He  was  compact  of  vanity,  but  the 
soundness  of  his  law  was  part  of  its  raison  d'etre.  No  client 
interested  him,  only  his  case.  Nothing,  however,  had  any 
real  interest  for  him  but  Henry  Carruthers,  and  there  was  no 
grace  or  covering  to  his  leanness  of  soul  and  body  to  disguise 
the  fact.  He  would  probably  charge  a  guinea,  possibly  two, 
for  advising  Lord  Ranmore,  with  the  aid  of  his  managing 
clerk,  as  to  where  Doctors'  Commons  was  situated,  what  was 
the  formula  for  obtaining  a  special  licence,  how  one  could  be 
married  by  banns,  or  in  a  registry  office.  It  was  no  part  of 
Mr.  Carruthers'  day's  work  to  take  the  slightest  interest  in 
the  bride,  nor  to  wonder  at  the  necessity  that  brought  her 
intended  bridegroom  to  him.  He  did  ask  when  Lord  Ranmore 
would  be  prepared  to  take  over  the  accounts  of  the  estate; 
and,  after  he  had  gleaned  all  the  information  possible  about 
the  ceremony  that  was  absorbing  him,  Deny  made  an  appoint- 
ment to  do  so.  But  the  want  of  humanity  about  the  man 
oppressed  him,  and  for  his  part  he  found  the  little,  round  man- 
aging clerk  infinitely  more  sympathetic.  He  followed  him  into 
the  outer  office,  and  lingered  talking  to  him.  A  "special 
licence"  would  strain  his  resources,  the  alternative  three  weeks' 
"domicile"  was  an  almost  insuperable  difficulty,  and  a  registry 
office  was  out  of  the  question.  Mr.  Danvers,  in  the  end,  was 
good  enough  to  recommend  him  rooms,  and  facilitate  matters 
for  him  generally.  He  had  a  little  natural  curiosity,  too,  and 
even  ventured  to  wish  him  "happiness." 

When  Deny  came  to  have  that  business  talk  with  Mr.  Car- 
ruthers, he  was  rather  dismayed  at  his  position.  For  years 
Lady  Ranmore  had  been  paying  out,  always  believing,  of 
course,  it  was  in  Terence's  interest  she  made  these  disburse- 
ments. But  the  trustee  to  Lady  Ranmore 's  marriage  settlement 
was  Mr.  Carruthers'  father-in-law,  or,  one  might  almost  say, 
the  firm.  They  had,  of  course,  been  compelled  to  foresee  the 
possibility  of  such  an  eventuality  as  had  now  accrued,  and  they 
had  always  safe-guarded  their  client 's  interests.  Which  meant, 

69 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

as  Deny  was  slowly  made  to  realize,  that  his  income  at  the 
moment  was  practically  dependent  on  Lady  Ranmore's  for- 
bearance. The  entail  went  only  so  far  as  the  Castle  and  a  few 
adjacent  acres.  The  intestacy  gave  her  practically  unlimited 
power  over  the  rest.  The  money  she  had  spent  upon  the  estate 
had  become  a  debt  from  the  estate  to  herself.  The  iniquitous 
death-duties,  as  they  related  to  land,  were  brought  prominently 
home  to  the  heir,  as  a  further  complication.  Altogether  it 
seemed  to  him  he  had  been  better  off  as  Deny  Malone  than  he 
was  likely  to  be  as  Lord  Ranmore.  It  was  perplexing  to  find 
that  he,  who  had  never  owed  a  hundred  pounds,  was  up  to  his 
neck  in  debt. 

At  the  end  of  the  interview  Mr.  Carruthers  said  stiffly  that 
he  was  in  communication  with  Lady  Ranmore,  and  hoped  in  a 
day  or  two  to  have  a  proposition  to  lay  before  him. 

The  letters  that  had  accumulated  for  Lord  Ranmore,  and  had 
been  forwarded  from  the  Castle,  were  handed  to  Deny  as  he 
left  the  lawyer's  office.  One  of  them  only  was  of  personal 
interest,  and  this  one  he  did  not  read  until  later  in  the  day,  at 
those  rooms  to  which  the  managing  clerk  recommended  him. 
The  rooms  were  near  Marylebone  Parish  Church,  where  all  the 
technicalities  the  laws  demand  for  marriage  by  banns  between 
Protestants  were  now  in  process  of  being  complied  with. 

It  was  through  indifference  rather  than  want  of  knowledge 
of  conventionalities,  that  Rosaleen  had  her  bedroom  in  the 
same  house,  that  to  all  outward  seeming  they  were  living  together. 

The  Duchess  knew  it,  for  she  had  written  to  invite  Deny  to 
Dunstans,  and  Derry's  reply  had  been  that  he  could  not  leave 
Rosaleen  alone  here!  And  this  had  proved  an  effectual  stopper 
on  the  correspondence. 

Derry's  life  had  been  wrenched  so  violently  out  of  its  groove 
that  all  his  actions  became  distorted.  He  was  as  a  man  who 
can  see  only  one  footstep  clear,  but  that  the  next  might  land 
him  in  bog  or  morass  could  not  deter  him  from  going  on.  In 
Albany  Street  he  found  himself  well-placed,  with  a  clean  and 
accommodating  landlady,  and  her  husband,  who  had  been  a 
butler.  Since  the  rooms  were  comfortable,  and  the  food  well- 

70 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

prepared  and  served,  why  should  Rosaleen  remain  on  in  the 
dirty  and  uncomfortable  temperance  hotel?  There  seemed 
no  reason  for  it,  and  his  meals  were  the  brighter  for  her  sharing 
them.  For  all  that,  she  continued  ill  at  ease  with  him,  and  the 
conversation  between  them  was  often  at  a  standstill.  They 
could  not  dwell  upon  the  past,  and  the  future,  further  than 
the  marriage  ceremony,  was  all  dim  and  uncertain.  The  daily 
weather,  or  the  daily  menu,  soon  wore  thin  as  subjects  for  talk. 
That  the  embarrassment  of  the  position  might  increase  instead 
of  diminishing,  both  of  them  shut  out  of  their  minds.  Deny, 
because  it  was  natural  to  him  to  be  optimistic,  and  not  a  little 
careless,  Rosaleen,  because  there  was  growing  in  her  all  the  time 
a  dumb  tempest  of  gratitude  to  him,  a  dumb  passion  of  desire 
to  prove  it,  and  a  miserable  self-consciousness  of  inferiority 
that  manifested  itself  in  a  silence  through  which,  at  present, 
at  least,  he  could  not  win. 

That  companionship,  for  the  moment,  was  impossible  between 
them,  was  partially  due,  no  doubt,  to  the  fact  that  his  time 
during  these  few  weeks  was  occupied  in  unraveling  Terence's 
affairs;  at  least  in  so  far  as  they  concerned  his  own.  There 
was  obscurity,  Mr.  Carruthers  admitted  to  him,  about  some 
of  the  old  tide  deeds.  Derry  could  not  talk  to  Rosaleen  of 
Terence,  and  Terence's  debts.  Margaret's  attitude  again, 
and  that  of  Lady  Ranmore,  could  not  be  discussed,  under  the 
circumstances.  A  want  of  mutual  ease  marked  their  growing 
silences.  Yet  Derry  was  never  uncertain  that  he  was  glad  she 
was  there.  And  she  was  always  seeing  more  clearly,  under- 
standing more  definitely,  that  from  which  he  was  saving  her. 

Carrie  Carthew's  letter,  coming  as  it  did,  ten  days  before 
their  marriage,  was  not  one  upon  which  he  could  take  counsel, 
least  of  all  Rosaleen's  counsel. 

"DEAR  LORD  RANMORE, 

"I  have  never  seen  you  except  that  dreadful  day  at 
Sandown.  Perhaps  you  know  how  much  your  cousin  and 
I  were  to  each  other?  I  wonder  whether  you  could  spare 
an  hour  one  afternoon  for  a  chat  with  me  about  it.  I  am 

71 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

always  at  home  between  4  and  5.     It  was  the  Duchess  who 
told  me  you  were  in  town. 

"Yours  very  truly, 

"CARRIE  CARTHEW." 

Derry  really  had  an  uncomfortable  instinct  about  this  letter. 
He  had  half  a  mind  to  speak  about  it  to  Carruthers,  but  Car- 
ruthers,  as  he  said  to  himself,  was  just  the  man  to  whom  no  one 
could  talk.  He  could  not  explain  his  misgiving  that  the  letter 
presaged  trouble,  but  there  it  was.  Terence  had  mentioned 
Lady  Carrie's  name.  Derry  remembered,  before  that  never- 
to-be-forgotten  black  tragedy  of  a  day,  he  had  been  promised 
a  confidence  about  Lady  Carrie  Carthew.  He  had  been 
present  with  Terence  at  his  club  when  there  had  been  some  chaff 
about  her,  which  Terence  had  turned  off  lightly,  yet  had  taken 
seriously  enough  to  say  to  Derry  afterward,  "  Don 't  you  take  any 
notice  of  anything  they  may  tell  you  about  Lady  Carrie.  She 
has  been  a  good  friend  to  me,  poor  little  woman.  If  it  hadn  't 
been  for  her  I  should  once  have  been  in  a  devil  of  a  hole." 
And  he  had  promised  to  take  Derry  to  see  her.  Then  Derry  had 
seen  her,  and  received  a  general  impression  of  Terence's  atten- 
tions to  her.  Whatever  it  was  that  had  been  between  them, 
she  had  certainly  been  on  his  mind  at  the  end. 

Derry  was  in  half  a  dozen  minds  as  to  what  answer  he  should 
make  to  the  letter.  He  did  go  so  far  as  to  ask  Rosaleen,  "  Did 
you  ever  hear  any  talk  of  Lady  Carrie  Carthew — Carrie  Carthew, 
they  call  her  ?  I  am  going  round  to  see  her  this  afternoon.  In 
Charles  Street,  she  lives.  ..." 

Rosaleen  had  never  heard  of  her.  But  she  remembered  her 
name  afterward — long  afterward — and  the  significance  of  a 
certain  indecision  in  Derry 's  way  of  asking  her  then  became 
apparent  to  her.  Now  it  passed  into  the  general  blur  of  her  days. 
She  did  not  know  Derry 's  grand  friends;  she  that  had  been 
shut  away  in  the  convent  until  she  came  to  be  maid  to  Terence 's 
mother.  Sometimes  now,  with  all  her  other  feelings,  there 
was  a  rising  resentment  at  her  circumstances,  the  little  chance 
she  had  had,  and  the  cruelty  of  her  fate.  She  had  hardly  yet 

72 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

begun  to  rise  on  the  stepping-stones  of  her  dead  self.  It  was 
such  a  young  and  featureless  self  that  had  been  killed,  that  the 
protoplasm  of  her  ego  had  escaped  the  harrow,  escaped  through 
its  very  insignificance  and  immaturity.  It  came  to  life  much 
later. 

Carrie  arranged  with  characteristic  definiteness  for  her  inter- 
view with  Terence's  cousin.  That  that  "great  hulking  boy," 
as  she  remembered  him,  had  succeeded  to  the  Ranmore  title 
and  estates  was  the  prominent  factor  in  the  situation.  Of 
Rosaleen  she  knew  nothing,  of  course,  and  of  the  value  of  the 
estates  still  less.  It  is  possible  she  pictured  Derry  wealthier 
than  Terence  had  been,  for  feminine  imagination  is  apt  to 
stray  with  inclination. 

At  four  o'clock  of  a  winter  afternoon  the  remnant  of  daylight 
could  easily  be  shut  out.  In  the  economic  distribution  of  pink- 
shaded  electric  wall-lights  the  narrow  drawing-room  of  Charles 
Street  looked  its  best.  There  was  no  affectation  of  decoration; 
whatever  else  her  friends  might  deny  her,  there  was  no  doubt 
Carrie  had  taste.  The  plainly  painted  walls  were  hung  with  a 
few  eighteenth-century  color-prints,  the  Lowestoft  and  Bow, 
the  Whielden  figures  and  the  Staffordshire  cottages,  were 
massed  on  shelves  and  in  corner  cupboards.  The  note  of  the 
furniture  was  Chippendale;  the  pattern  of  the  chintz  was  a 
hundred  years  old.  The  table  of  cut  flowers,  orchids  and  roses 
and  light  Neapolitan  violets,  was  at  the  head  of  the  sofa,  before 
it  stood  the  tea-table,  with  the  lamp  of  the  kettle  alight;  and  here, 
too,  were  the  Sheffield  dishes  that  held  the  muffins,  and  two 
or  three  varieties  of  cakes  and  sandwiches. 

Derry  was  not  supposed  to  understand  the  subtle  refinements 
of  Lady  Carrie's  room,  but  the  impression  to  be  conveyed  to 
him  must  be  attractive,  alluring,  as  indeed  Carrie  hoped  her- 
self to  appear  to  him. 

Lady  Carrie,  who  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  old  Earl 
of  Wickford,  by  his  first  Irish  wife,  with  the  bluest  of  blood  in 
her  veins,  and  a  pedigree  that  was  a  "genuine  antique,"  stained 
and  wormeaten,  much  repaired  and  showing  signs  of  wear,  but 
thoroughly  authenticated,  was  thirty-five  years  of  age,  and, 

73 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

without  the  rose-color  lamp-shades  and  the  rest  of  it,  looked 
every  day  of  it.  She  had  a  great  deal  of  style  and  some  character. 
The  style  was  good,  and  the  character  bad.  There  was  also 
individuality,  with  undoubted  intelligence.  Either  or  both 
must  have  captured  Sir  Harry  Carthew  when  she  led  him  to 
the  altar  in  the  desperation  of  her  twenty-eighth  year.  But 
then,  he  had  been  a  determined  bachelor,  who  rode  hard,  cared 
for  nothing  but  horses,  and  never  understood  how  it  was  he  had 
been  married,  out  of  hand,  as  it  were,  to  this  sporting  little 
filly.  In  communicative  after-dinner  moods,  in  the  early  days 
of  their  marriage,  he  was  apt  to  dwell  upon  her  talents.  His 
income  was  moderate,  yet  Carrie  dressed  from  Paris — "by  God, 
she  did,  Sir," — and  they  had  the  best  cook  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  a  cellar  second  to  none.  The  Charles  Street  house  was 
an  incident  of  her  widowhood.  But  at  Melton,  from  the  day 
of  his  marriage,  Sir  Harry's  fortune  seemed  to  grow;  it  had 
been  moderate  when  she  married  him.  Yet  she,  as  everybody 
knew,  had  nothing.  He  was  an  honest  fool,  and  his  eyes 
opened  very  slowly,  and  not  very  long  before  he  died.  The 
manner  of  his  dying  was  the  point  that  was  obscure  At  least, 
Carrie  conveyed  to  Derry  the  idea  that  it  was  obscure,  when 
he  sat  in  that  pretty  little  drawing-room  of  hers  this  afternoon. 
Derry  did  find  the  drawing-room  comfortable,  and  its  mistress 
companionable.  She  drew  him  out,  and  flattered  him  dexter- 
ously; and  it  was  only  when  she  felt  she  was  on  safe  ground, 
that  she  threw  out  those  mysterious  hints  about  her  husband's 
death,  and  appealed  to  his  heart.  Derry  looked  extraordinarily 
large  in  that  little  drawing-room.  His  head,  with  its  square 
and  rugged  brow,  was  well  set  upon  his  shoulders;  his  hands, 
now  they  had  recovered  a  little  from  their  five  years  in  the 
workshops,  were  not  ill-shaped.  His  clothes  were  not  ill-fitting 
either,  for  he  had  gone  to  Terence's  tailor.  He  would  never 
have  the  bandbox  elegance  of  that  other  one,  who  had  sat  so 
often  in  his  place;  but  Carrie  had  an  appreciative  eye  for  him, 
and  decided  that  he  might  prove  almost  unique  in  the  situation 
she  would  devise.  Underneath  her  smartness  and  the  purr  of 
her  manner,  there  was  a  sensuousness — to  give  it  its  mildest 

74 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

name — that  set  the  seal  upon  her  type.     It  was  only  a  sensuous- 
ness  of  imagination,  her  temperament  was  cold. 

"It  was  very  good  of  you  to  come  so  soon.  I  wanted  to 
write  before,  but  it  seemed  almost  intrusive.  It  was  such  a 
shocking,  awful  thing  .  .  .  tea?  May  I  pour  you  out  a  cup 
of  tea,  while  the  muffins  are  hot?  What  a  funny  place  you 
wrote  from,  Albany  Street  ?  You  are  not  in  the  Army,  are  you  ?" 
She  had  some  vague  idea  she  had  heard  of  barracks  in  Albany 
Street. 

"I'm  an  engineer,"  said  Lord  Ranmore. 

"A  sapper?"  she  laughed.  She  only  knew  of  one  sort  of 
engineer.  "Never  mind.  You'll  resign  now,  I  suppose,  and 
begin  to  enjoy  life." 

Then  she  added,  in  that  language  of  which  he  undertsood  not 
one  word,  and  would  never  learn: 

"  I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  add  something  to  it  for  you." 

"I'm  sure  you're  very  kind,"  said  Deny.  "It's  not  enjoy- 
ment so  much  I'm  thinking  of.  ..." 

"Then  of  what  are  you  thinking?" 

She  leaned  forward  a  little  to  ask  him.  She  was  a  small 
woman,  fair.  In  the  pink  light  it  was  impossible  to  detect 
the  biliousness  of  her  complexion,  and  the  well-shaped  nose 
had  a  chance.  Lady  Carrie's  lips  were  somewhat  thick,  but 
her  teeth  were  white  and  pretty,  and  there  was  something 
attractive  about  her  smile.  And  she  was  so  "nice"  to  all  her 
men  friends  and  acquaintances,  that  she  had  really  earned  the 
soubriquet  Betty  Brinmore  had  given  her  years  before.  Bet 
called  her  "the  Yellow  Peril." 

Derry  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"Now  it's  kind  of  you  to  be  interested  yourself  in  me.  I'm 
thinking  most  of  the  time  of  Mr.  Carruthers,  and  what  he's 
after  telling  me." 

"Carruthers!  That's  the  lawyer,  isn't  it?"  Carrie  pricked 
up  her  intelligent  ears. 

"He  is  the  English  lawyer  to  the  Ranmore  estates." 

"Is  he  bothering  you?" 

"That's  just  what  he's  doing." 

75 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"You  must  tell  me  all  about  it." 

When  it  is  remembered  that  Deny  really  had  no  confidant, 
no  one  to  whom  he  could  voice  his  perplexities,  and  that  Carrie 
was  a  woman  of  the  world,  and  had  an  end  to  gain  in  obtaining 
a  footing  with  him,  it  is  easy  to  see  what  befell.  She  flattered 
and  cajoled  him,  and  he  had  not  been  used  to  flattery  or  cajolery. 
She  wormed  out  of  him  all  about  the  tangle  of  the  estates,  and 
what  Mr.  Carruthers  had  said  to  him. 

"  It  is  awful  to  be  short  of  money,"  Carrie  said  sympathetically. 
"You  know,  but  for  Terence  ..."  And  then  she  stopped, 
and  bit  her  lip,  and  seemed  as  if  sorry  she  had  spoken,  but 
regarded  him  under  her  eyes,  and  wondered  if  he  would  rise  to 
the  fly. 

"That's  just  what  I  want  you  to  be  telling  me."  Deny  had 
been  wanting  to  get  to  it,  although  really  he  was  so  comfort- 
able, warmed  and  soothed,  that  he  had  almost  forgotten  the 
object  of  his  visit.  "There  was  something  between  you  and 
Terence.  .  .  ." 

She  gave  a  little  low  laugh  at  that,  and  Carrie 's  laugh  was  the 
most  attractive  thing  about  her. 

"You  are  wondering  what  it  was,"  she  said.  And  anyone 
less  naturally  dense  on  such  a  subject  than  Deny  would  have 
jumped  to  the  conclusion  she  meant  to  convey.  But  Deny, 
besides  being  naturally  averse  to  thinking  lightly  of  any  woman, 
had  his  own  reasons  for  acquitting  Terence  of  any  love-making 
in  this  attractive  quarter. 

"I  am  wondering  that,"  he  said  quite  simply.  It  was  a 
rebuff,  Carrie  felt,  and  an  unreasonable  irritation,  or  anger, 
at  his  denseness  precipitated  her  into  hasty  speech. 

"It  doesn't  strike  you  that  he  might  have  been  fond  of  me?" 

"He  told  me  that  you  had  been  a  good  friend  to  him." 

She  had  to  review  her  forces,  and  that  quickly.  She  had 
sent  for  Deny  partly  in  idleness,  but  mostly  with  intention. 
The  chantage  Terence  had  paid  so  willingly  she  had  no  lever  to 
extract  from  his  successor;  and  Derry's  youth  and  obvious 
ignorance  of  the  world  had  suggested  another  way.  But  now 
that  she  found  him  so  unresponsive — stupid  was  the  word  she 

76 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

used  to  herself — she  had  to  resolve  quickly  whether  she  would 
tell  him,  or  imply  to  him,  that  there  was  a  promise  of  marriage 
between  her  and  Terence,  or  whether  she  would  make  her 
appeal  to  him  on  some  ground  nearer  the  truth.  It  was  Deny 
who  decided  the  point,  by  going  on  in  that  soft  voice  of  his,  with 
just  the  touch  of  the  brogue  in  it: 

"I'd  have  thought  it  was  you  and  he  had  been  love-making 
together,  and  small  blame  to  him,  but  for  the  knowing  Terence 
was  engaged  in  another  quarter."  This  was  news  to  Carrie, 
but  quickly  assimilated.  "So  it  must  have  been  some  scrape 
you  pulled  him  through,  and  that  he  hinted  about  to  me.  Maybe 
you'd  rather  not  tell  me,"  he  added  hastily.  "But  whatever 
you  did  for  Terence,  I  count  as  if  it  had  been  done  for  me,  for 
that  was  the  way  of  things  between  Terence  and  me.  And  I'm 
grateful.  .  .  .  It's  me  that's  here  to  set  anything  right." 

Her  plan  of  campaign  seemed  to  unroll,  to  straighten  itself 
out. 

"It  is  not  so  simple  a  matter  as  you  might  think,"  she  said, 
to  gain  time,  and  readjust  her  ideas.  "He  was  so  impulsive," 
she  went  on  slowly,  as  if  excusing  him  before  she  spoke. 

"He  had  the  good  heart,"  Derry  interposed  quickly. 

"And  a  quick  temper,"  she  answered  equally  readily. 

"Maybe." 

"And  it  was  the  one  and  the  other  that  made  the  link  between 
us." 

"You'll  tell  me?" 

The  maid  coming  in  to  remove  the  tea-things  stopped  conver- 
sation for  the  moment.  When  they  were  alone,  Carrie  put  both 
hands  before  her  eyes,  and  she  spoke,  a  little  in  the  voice  of  a 
sleepwalker.  She  was  back  in  the  past,  or  playing  at  being  back 
in  the  past. 

"Terence  thought  himself  in  love  with  me,  years  ago,  when 
he  first  came  to  London,  just  a  red-haired,  impulsive  Irish  boy. 
And  I'm  his  cousin,  you  know,  the  nearest  relative  he  had  in 
town.  He  came  to  stay  with  us  at  Melton.  There  was  nothing 
Terence  couldn't  ride.  He  went  out  hunting  with  us.  Harry 
liked  him,  he  had  such  gay  spirits.  In  the  evenings  he  sang  us 
6  77 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

his  Irish  songs  .    .    .  such  strange  songs.     I  remember  one  of 
them" — she  hummed  it: 

"Oh!  whiskey  or  the  Devil,  ye  are  leading  me  asthray 
Oh!  whiskey  or  the  Devil,  drunk  or  sober  .  .  . 

"And  another  about: 

"A  fine  old  Irish  gentleman,  one  of  the  rale  old  sort. 

"  It  was  about  a  wake,  that  one.  And  there  was  another  of 
which  the  refrain  went  softly: 

"An*  he  sold  her  to  his  servant, 
An'  he  gave  him  twenty  pound. 

"  Well,  the  days  in  the  hunting-field,  and  the  evenings  at  the 
piano,  came  to  an  end.  ..." 

Deny  had  heard  Terence  sing  all  his  songs.  Ah!  the  gaiety 
of  him,  and  the  voice  that  he'd  never  hear  again!  It  all  came 
back  to  him  as  she  spoke. 

"Up  in  London,  of  course,  that  season,  we  did  not  see  so 
much  of  him,  but  he  was  in  and  out.  Harry  got  jealous,  or 
suspicious  about  it.  It  was  one  day  when  I  was  wearing  a  new 
ring — this  one."  She  took  her  hands  from  before  her  eyes,  she 
held  her  hand  out  to  Deny.  It  was  a  small  hand,  and  its  yellow- 
ish pallor  went  pink  in  the  lamplight.  He  could  not  but  take  it 
in  his,  since  she  gave  it  to  him,  and  the  ruby  on  the  third  finger 
was  set  round  with  diamonds. 

"My  husband  asked  me  who  gave  it  me.  Terence  had  given 
it  me;  it  was  a  bet  we  had  had — Shotover  for  the  Diamond 
Jubilee  stakes.  But  Harry  lost  his  temper  over  it.  That  night 
he  and  Terence  met  at  the  Ralyn  Club.  You  know  what 
happened?  Harry  had  a  fall.  Terence  brought  him  home. 
At  the  inquest  they  said  Harry  had  taken  more  than  was  good 
for  him — he  did  sometimes,  you  know.  He  had  just  got  to  the 
top  of  the  stairs  when  he  met  Terence.  Terence  did  not  know 
he  had  anything  against  him.  It  was  just  a  word  and  a  push. 
.  .  .  Terence  could  never  get  over  it;  he  was  quite  broken  up 

78 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

when  I  told  him  how  Harry  had  gone  out  enraged  against  him. 
Terence  thought  he  had  only  been  chaffing  him,  but  Harry 
had  not  gone  out  in  a  chaffing  mood.  I  had  to  tell  Him 
so.  ..." 

Deny  had  hold  of  the  small  hand;  he  could  not  but  press  it. 

"I  saved  him  all  that  was  possible.  No  one  ever  knew  they 
were  anything  but  the  best  of  friends.  Mossy  Leon,  the  lawyer — 
you  know  him,  of  course? — was  the  only  member  of  the  Club 
who  had  been  present.  I  saw  him  for  Terence.  Harry's  foot 
had  slipped;  they  are  marble  steps,  you  know.  I  dare  say  you 
remember  the  evidence,  and  the  verdict  of  'accidental  death.' 
Well,  it  wasn't  true.  Harry  had  gone  out  to  find  Terence  and 
have  it  out  with  him,  Terence  himself  always  said  he  never 
knew  how  it  all  happened.  But  Mossy  Leon  knew."  She  drew 
her  hand  away  from  Berry's,  not  abruptly,  but  it  had  been  long 
enough  in  his. 

"When  Terence  knew  what  he  had  done,  and  how  alone  in 
the  world  I  was,  I  must  say  he  was  very  good  to  me.  Harry 
had  always  been  extravagant,  we  had  always  lived  above  our 
income.  And  Terence  was  my  own  cousin.  ..." 

"You  saved  his  name,"  Deny  said,  in  a  low  voice.  As  she 
told  the  story,  it  passed  by  Deny  that,  if  any  name  wanted 
saving,  hers  might  have  been  at  least  as  smirched  as  his. 

"I  did  all  I  could,"  she  said,  modestly,  accepting  his  exclama- 
tion. "He  would  have  made  up  for  it  afterward  in  any  way 
that  was  possible.  But,  as  you  say,"  Carrie  was  quick  to  take 
her  cue — "he  had  fallen  in  love  again.  He  helped  me  out  with 
my  little  income.  ..." 

She  had  got  to  the  point.  Now  indeed  she  was  watching  him, 
her  eyes — they  were  eyes  that  saw  better  in  the  dark  than  in  the 
light — were  narrow  and  bright  upon  him.  "He  would  not  let 
me  suffer  financially.  I  would  not  take  anything  from  him  at 
first.  Do  you  think  I  was  right?  But  he  insisted,  since  it  was 
his  fault  that  I  was  so  alone  and  poor.  ..." 

"He  couldn't  do  anything  else,"  Deny  answered  impulsively. 
"He  must  have  been  very  thankful  of  the  chance,  very  glad  he 
was  able  to  help  you  .  .  ." 

79 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"You  think  that?"  she  went  on  quickly.  "I  was  half  afraid 
you  would,  and  that  you  would  want  to  go  on  with  it,  but  you 
have  no  responsibility.  ..." 

Perhaps  it  had  not  struck  Deny  so  quickly,  but  now  it 
was  clear  as  daylight  to  him  that  Terence's  responsibility 
was  his. 

"Of  course,  his  death  must  not  make  any  difference  to 
you." 

"Oh!  no,  no.  I'm  not  dreaming  or  thinking  you'll  do  what 
he  did.  But  from  what  I  heard  of  you" — what  she  had 
gathered  since  he  had  been  in  the  room,  she  meant — "I  knew 
you  would  want  to  do  something.  It  was  that  I  wanted  to 
talk  to  you  about  chiefly.  You  must  not  allow  yourself  to  be 
inconvenienced." 

Deny  had  no  reason  to  doubt  the  story  that  had  just  been 
outlined  to  him.  Terence  had  wanted  to  say  something  to  Lady 
Carrie,  and  had  sent  for  her,  when  the  greater  anxiety  about 
Rosaleen  had  seized  on  him,  in  what  seemed  likely  to  be  his  last 
hour.  Deny  would  shoulder  this  burden,  too,  of  Terence's,  if 
he  were  able.  Money  had  not  counted  much  with  Deny  up  to 
now.  It  is  with  rich  people  money  bulks  so  largely,  not  with 
those  who  have  never  had  it.  Terence  had  given  Lady  Carrie 
money  because  he  was  directly ,  or  indirectly,  responsible  for  her 
widowhood  and  poverty.  On  the  accident  itself  Deny  did  not 
dwell,  the  relation  of  it  was  certainly  a  little  obscure.  But  by 
this  time  Carrie  had  produced  the  impression  for  which  she  had 
been  aiming.  Deny  thought  of  her  as  a  "poor  little  woman." 
The  further  she  spoke  of  her  position,  the  more  pathetic  it 
seemed. 

Cautiously  as  Carrie  moved,  the  moment  had  to  come  when 
figures  must  be  mentioned.  Terence  had  given  her  from  time 
to  time  a  great  deal  of  money,  whatever  he  could  raise  or  spare. 
But  not  an  allowance — certainly  nothing  in  the  way  of  an  allow- 
ance. He  had  been  sorry  for  Carrie;  she  had  put  the  responsibility 
of  Harry  Carthew's  death  on  him,  and  he  had  accepted  it,  though, 
for  the  life  of  him,  he  had  never  been  able  to  remember  what  had 
happened.  Harry  was  drunk  when  he  came  into  the  Club,  and 

80 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Harry  was  apt  to  grow" offensive  at  the  second  stage.  Terence 
had  been  talking  to  Mossy  Leon;  Mosey  had  discounted  bills 
for  him,  taught  him  how  money  was  to  be  obtained — a  good 
fellow,  Mossy!  At  the  moment  when  Harry  Carthew  lurched 
upstairs  and  began  some  yarn,  Terence  thought  it  was  the 
lawyer  he  was  going  for.  The  words  he  seemed  to  remember 
were  "damned  shark "  and  "infernal  scoundrel,"  and  he  thought 
it  was  Mossy  to  whom  he  was  alluding.  Mossy  Leon  evidently 
thought  so  too,  for  he  retreated  quickly  when  Terence  interposed. 
It  wasn't  fair  to  go  for  little  Mossy.  Terence  only  meant  to  see 
fair  play.  Harry  put  up  his  hands,  and  Terence  was  never  slow 
with  his.  .  .  .  But  to  the  day  of  his  death  Terence  never 
remembered  touching  the  man,  only  seeing  him  lurch  and  hold 
on  to  the  banister,  and  then  leave  go.  But  he  remembered  the 
sickening  thud  of  the  fall,  members  running  out,  the  club  servants 
and  that  huddled  figure  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  Mossy 
dragging  him  backward  into  the  card-room. 

"Keep  out  of  it,"  Mossy  said,  "let's  keep  out  of  it."  He  was 
for  saying  they  had  both  of  them  only  come  out  of  the  room 
when  they  heard  the  noise.  .  .  . 

But,  of  course,  Terence  would  not  have  that,  and  it  was  he 
who  had  taken  Harry  home,  and  in  an  emotional  moment  of 
breakdown,  facing  Carrie  in  her  new  bereavement,  he  had  bound 
the  shackles  on  his  wrists  that  now  were  to  grip  Derry's.  Those 
early  days  of  Lady  Carrie's  widowhood  were  full  of  interviews 
with  Terence.  The  one  or  two  she  had  with  Mossy  Leon  were 
nothing  new;  she  had  had  many  transactions  with  Mossy,  but 
Harry's  death  made  a  difference.  Mossy  knew  the  difference 
but  he  was  always  considerate  to  his  old  clients. 

All  this  was  nothing  to  do  with  Deny,  who  was  sorry  for  the 
poor  little  woman,  when  she  made  him  see  how  she  was  placed 
by  Terence's  death.  It  would  go  hard  with  him  but  he  would 
be  able  to  help  her. 

He  grew  quite  friendly  with  Lady  Carrie  before  that  afternoon 
visit  of  his  drew  to  a  close.  He  understood  that  she  was  very 
lonely.  And  there  was  no  reason  for  him  to  hurry  away  from 
her.  Nobody  wanted  him.  Rosaleen's  thoughts,  of  course, 

81 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

were  wrapped  up  in  Terence.  He  told  Carrie  all  he  knew  about 
his  own  affairs,  but  somehow  or  other,  he  did  not  speak  to  her 
of  Rosaleen.  It  was  really  characteristic  of  Lady  Carrie  that 
Deny  could  not  open  his  lips  to  her  about  the  girl  whose  life  he 
had  taken  into  his  keeping.  It  showed  that  Deny  had  instinct 
even  if  he  lacked  reasoning  power.  But  he  talked  to  her  about 
the  complications  of  the  Ranmore  estate,  and  of  the  heavy 
death-dues. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should  believe  everything  that  Henry 
Carruthers  tells  you,"  she  said  at  length,  thoughtfully,  when  she 
had  assimilated  it.  "I  should  think  you  ought  to  have  an  inde- 
pendent solicitor."  And  then,  still  thoughtful,  although  perhaps 
it  was  not  entirely  of  Derry's  troubles  she  was  thinking,  she 
added: 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  see  Mossy  Leon  for  you,  and  ask  him  ? 
I  think  it  is  very  possible  you  are  being  badly  advised.  Mr. 
Carruthers  may  be,  probably  is,  studying  Lady  Ranmore's 
interests,  and  not  yours  at  aU.  I  seem  to  remember  Terence 
telling  me  the  land  is  very  rich;  coal,  or  tin,  or  something.  It  is 
very  probable  you  are  being  robbed.  Mossy  is  very  sharp,  much 
cleverer  than  Henry  Carruthers."  Henry  Carruthers  should 
have  heard  her!  "You  had  better  let  me  arrange  an  interview 
for  you  with  Mossy  Leon,  and  hear  what  he  has  to  say  about  it, 
if  he  has  anything  to  suggest  ?" 

Deny  deprecated  the  trouble  he  would  be  putting  her  to;  but 
of  course  he  would  like  to  come  in  again',  for  his  days  were  not 
very  full.  Carrie  was  a  "poor  little  woman,"  kind  and  sympa- 
thetic to  him.  He  wanted  to  do  something  for  her.  It  was  a 
comfort  to  have  someone  to  talk  to,  and,  as  she  herself  said, 
if  she  was  Terence's  cousin,  she  must  be  also  his. 

She  stretched  herself  when  he  had  gone.  It  had  been  a  long, 
a  difficult,  interview.  But  she  nattered  herself  she  had  gone 
through  it  very  well.  He  was  extraordinarily  simple.  She 
really  thought  Carruthers  would  probably  be  getting  the  better 
of  him.  There  might  be  something  for  Mossy  in  it,  as  well  as 
for  herself.  She  thought  how  easily  she  could  wind  Deny  around 
her  finger,  and  how  he  had  opened  himself  to  her.  She  never 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

suspected  that  on  one  subject  at  least  he  had  not  opened  to  her 
at  all.  The  place  Rosaleen  had  with  Deny,  had  always  had 
with  him,  was  in  a  little  shrine,  in  the  very  innermost  recess  of 
his  heart,  shut  up  there  now  with  tenderness,  and  not  a  little 
pain,  but  in  the  dark,  not  to  be  talked  about.  To  Carrie  he 
gave  all  the  detail  about  Ranmore  that  he  had  learned  from 
Mr.  Carruthers,  and  about  the  complications.  She  was  satisfied 
she  had  all  his  confidence! 


MOSSY  LEON  had  an  unique  position,  whether  as 
solicitor,  in  which  profession  he  had  started  life,  as 
money-lender,  in  which  he  had  graduated  under  the 
great  Sam  Levine's  fostering  care,  or  as  "one  of  our  leading 
London  dramatists,"  a  distinction  to  which  he  considered  himself 
entitled  as  one  of  the  many  authors  of  many  musical  comedies. 
Nat  Simmons,  the  famous  theatrical  entrepreneur,  was  one  of 
his  clients;  to  which  fact,  as  much  as  to  his  connection  with  Sam 
Levine,  must  be  attributed  his  development.  For  Mossy  was 
nothing  if  not  adaptable.  He  was  very  clever.  Carrie  was  quite 
right,  he  was  much  cleverer  than  Henry  Carruthers,  although 
he  did  not  know  Archimedes  from  Aristotle,  and  had  possibly 
never  heard  of  either  of  them.  He  had  a  contempt  for  any 
literature  that  was  not  up-to  date,  and  topical.  He  had  forgotten 
just  enough  Latin  to  make  him  remember  it  was  in  the  curriculum 
of  the  University  College  School,  which  he  had  left,  without 
attaining  any  position  at  all,  when  he  was  sixteen.  Between  that 
tender  age  and  the  time  when  he  passed  his  "final"  and  became 
a  fully  fledged  lawyer,  he  had  kept  his  sharp  black  eyes  wide 
open,  and  learned  a  hundred  useful  things  about  men  and  women 
and  money.  He  had  developed  ambition,  too,  which  presently 
ran  riot  in  him,  and  led  him  into  many  devious  and  intricate 
ways  for  obtaining  the  means  to  gratify  it.  But  his  appetites 
were  so  numerous,  and  so  insistent,  that  the  money  he  earned, 
considerable  although  it  was,  never  kept  him  sufficiently  supplied. 
His  appetites  were  ogres,  and  finally  they  overpowered  and  killed 
him.  But  this  was  many  years  after  the  date  of  this  story. 

At  the  time  Deny  Ranmore  made  Mossy 's  acquaintance  he 
was  living  in  Grosvenor  Square,  and  practising  in  Lincoln'  >  Inn. 
He  had  a  wife  in  whose  veins  "ran  the  best  blood  in  England" — 

84 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

so  her  mother  had  assured  him  when  he  won  her.  Afterward 
he  used  to  say  it  persuaded  him  she  was  illegitimate;  but,  at  the 
time,  there  is  no  doubt  he  accepted  the  Ayscough  tradition  of 
high  descent  without  its  touching  his  rich  vein  of  humor. 

Ethel  Ayscough  had  been  quite  beautiful  enough  to  persuade 
any  warm-blooded  Oriental,  in  his  twenty-first  year,  to  accept 
any  tradition.  They  were  a  very  pretentious  family,  the 
Ayscoughs;  they  had  no  really  characteristic  feature  except  this, 
which  differentiated  them  from  all  the  many  varieties  of  Micaw- 
ber  to  which  they  were  affiliated,  and  gave  a  cachet  to  the 
poverty  that  they  wore  so  aggressively. 

When  Mossy  Leon  realized  the  style  he  was  expected  to  keep 
up  as  the  husband  of  his  wife,  he  was  bound  to  realize  also  that 
six-and-eightpences,  however  quickly  they  came  in,  were  insuffi- 
cient for  his  needs.  He  became  a  jackal  for  Sam  Levine,  the 
great  Jewish  money-lender,  who  left  four  millions  of  money  to 
London  charities,  every  shilling  of  which  had  been  earned  by 
usury.  Mossy  envied  him;  but  when  he  compared  Sam's 
unwieldy,  enamelled  and  painted  wife,  as  she  lolled  back  in  her 
victoria  behind  the  thousand-guinea  pair  of  horses  Sam  had 
bought  for  her,  with  his  own  thin  and  pretentious  treasure  at 
home,  he  grew  more  reconciled  to  fate.  They  were  always 
Mossy's  inconsistencies  that  made  him  interesting. 

Ethel  Ayscough  fulfilled  none  of  the  duties  of  wifehood,  and 
Mossy  had  discovered  the  third  row  of  the  musical-comedy 
chorus  before  he  had  been  married  a  year.  Yet,  although  he 
was  never  faithful  to  his  wife,  and  they  lived  on  cat-and-dog 
terms,  he  was  secretely  proud  of  her.  She  always  influenced 
him  unconsciously,  and  was  responsible  for  his  later  troubles. 
As  for  her,  she  cared  only  for  externals,  draining  him  of  money 
for  unessentials,  dress,  jewelry,  fine  houses  and  entertainments; 
she  was  a  true  daughter  of  the  horse-leech. 

When  Deny  was  introduced  to  Mossy  Leon  by  Lady  Carrie 
Carthew,  he  and  his  wife  were  at  their  zenith.  Sam  Levine  was 
dead,  and  in  winding  up  his  estate  Mossy  had  feathered  his  nest 
warmly.  The  house  in  Grosvenor  Square  was  being  "run"  on 
a  fine  scale.  Lady  Carrie  had  been  to  one  or  two  of  Mrs. 

85 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Mossy's  receptions,  and  Mossy  thought  he  might  entertain 
royalty  one  day.  Also  his  taste  had  progressed  from  the  third 
row  of  the  chorus  to  the  leading  lady,  and  he  had  a  box  for  the 
first  night  of  every  play  worth  seeing — that  is,  for  every  play 
with  songs,  and  dances,  and  pretty  women,  and  no  "damned 
nonsense"  about  plot. 

He  was  a  lawyer,  and  not  a  money-lender,  he  often  said. 
Yet  he  had  the  money -lender's  art  at  his  bediamoned  fingers'  ends. 
Carrie  had  been  very  useful  to  him;  he  thought  her  a  clever  little 
cat  of  a  woman,  and  had  no  illusions  about  her.  But  often  he 
would  let  her  get  the  better  of  him,  he  was  instinctively  and 
royally  generous. 

"What!  Ranmore's  heir!  But  Ranmore  hadn't  a  bob!  Oh, 
yes,  I'll  see  him,  of  course.  I  know  Carruthers — a  long,  thin 
chap,  with  a  glass  in  his  eyt,  stuck-up  sort  of  fellow.  I  don't 
like  him,  but  he  knows  his  work.  His  work  is  running  up  costs, 
same  as  most  lawyers.  Me!  Oh!  I'm  different,  of  course! 
I  don't  think!  But  bring,  your  pal  along.  I'm  not  over  busy 
just  now." 

Carrie  had  come  to  Lincoln's  Inn  to  see  Mossy  Leon  about 
Berry's  affairs.  It  was  not  the  first  time  by  many  that  she  had 
been  here.  The  luxurious  easy  chairs  and  sofas,  Chippendale 
book-cases  and  other  luxuries  that  furnished  Mossy's  sanctum 
were  all  familiar  to  her.  Mossy  and  she  were  friends,  in  a  way. 
Mossy  had  paid  for  her  friendship,  but  he  bore  her  no  malice 
for  that.  There  had  been  a  time  when,  notwithstanding  she 
was  Wickford's  daughter,  and  he  only  Mossy  Leon,  she  had 
smiled  prettily  for  his  benefit,  worn  her  veil  down,  and,  with 
a  soupcon  of  rouge,  a  touch  of  black  to  her  eyelashes,  and  a 
general  preening  of  her  feathers,  prepared  for  her  visits  to  his 
office.  There  had  been  something  not  unattractive  to  Carrie  in 
Mossy's  quick  wit,  and  varied  knowledge  and  pursuits,  so 
eclectic  were  her  own  tastes.  But  that  time  had  long  passed. 
Now  she  sat  in  her  plainest  morning  tailor-made  dress  on  the 
corner  of  the  sofa,  facing  Mossy,  who  was  restless,  as  always,  in 
his  office  chair  at  the  big  writing-table,  and  she  discussed  both 
Deny  and  Terence  with  frankness. 

86 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"You  want  me  to  see  him  and  find  out  what  his  resources 
really  are.  I  can't  take  the  winding  up  of  the  estate  out  of 
Carruthers'  hands,  I'm  afraid,  but  I'll  see  the  new  Earl,  of 
course.  Why  didn't  you  bring  him  with  you?  I  don't  think 
I  know  him  by  sight,  do  I?  Ginger?" 

"No,  he  is  what  they  call  a  'black  Ranmore';  but  that  only 
means  he  hasn't  red  hair,  he  is  not  particularly  dark." 

"He  is  younger  than  Ranmore,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  yes;  three-  or  four-and-twenty  at  most,  I  should  think." 

"Drink?" 

"No— oh,  no!" 

"Well,  Ranmore  did,  you  know,  not  regularly,  perhaps, 
but  every  now  and  again.  And  it  would  have  grown  on  him — 
it's  in  the  blood." 

Carrie  took  out  a  cigarette  and  lighted  it.  She  did  not 
mind  raising  her  veil  now  in  Mossy's  office,  nor  sitting  facing 
the  window.  He  gave  her  a  brief  resume  of  the  Ranmore 
peerage.  He  was  full  of  chroniques  scandaleuses  of  the  peerage, 
he  always  said  it  was  part  of  his  business  to  work  them  up. 

"But  this  man  must  be  a  distant  branch,  surely?  I  suppose 
he  is  the  heir?" 

"Oh,  yes;  the  title  is  his,  and  the  Castle,  without  dispute. 
They  have  always  accepted  him  as  the  heir,  although  I  believe 
only  a  small  part  of  the  estate  is  entailed.  Terence  and  the 
Duchess  were  both  devoted  to  him." 

"I  had  better  see  him  here.     Can't  you  fix  an  appointment?" 

"No.  He  hates  lawyers,  shies  at  papers  and  figures,  he 
isn't  very  clever,  you  know!  You'd  better  come  in  to  tea  this 
afternoon,  and  we'll  introduce  the  subject  naturally,  easily — 
no  formalities.  Then  you  can  take  him  away  with  you  and 
discuss  detail.  Let  it  come  about  that  way.  He  is  very  dull 
here  in  London,  he  seems  to  know  no  one." 

"I  can  take  him  home  to  dinner,  if  it  comes  to  that." 

Carrie's  laugh  was  mischievous  as  she  blew  out  her  smoke-rings. 

"  'The  Last  of  the  Ayscoughs'  will  gladly  entertain  Lord 
Ranmore,  and  she  will  telephone  that  unfortunate  sister  of 
hers  in  the  morning,  'My  dear,  I'm  so  overwhelmed  with  people, 

87 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Lord  Ranmore  dropped  in  last  night,'  and  rub  in  the  distance 
that  lies  between  Society  in  Grosvenor  Square  and  the  suburbs 
in  Dorking." 

Lady  Carrie  had  made  a  study  of  Mossy's  wife.  That 
was  in  the  days  of  her  interest  in  Mossy.  Since  then  her  sketch 
had  grown,  and  had  amused  several  of  Carrie's  friends,  who 
went  to  Grosvenor  Square  to  verify  it.  Mossy  saw  the  humor- 
ous side  of  his  wife's  character.  It  was  one  of  his  many  saving 
graces  that  he  saw  the  humorous  side  of  everything,  even  of 
musical  comedy.  But  Lady  Carrie's  sarcasm  never  altered 
that  secret  feeling  he  had  for  his  wife. 

That  afternoon  he  met  Derry,  as  arranged,  in  the  Charles 
Street  drawing-room.  Derry  had  found  himself  there  more 
than  once  since  the  last  week.  Lady  Carrie  was  very  kind 
to  him,  and  instructed  his  ignorance,  making  him  hold  his 
head  a  little  more  erect,  be  more  consciously  Lord  Ranmore. 
The  alteration  was  insensible  to  himself,  but  it  was  there  never- 
theless. Rosaleen,  sharing  those  rooms  in  Albany  Street  with 
him,  waiting  for  her  wedding-day,  knew  it. 

Carrie  introduced  the  two  men.  There  were  no  social 
barriers  to  break  down,  as  there  might  have  been  with  a  man 
differently  bred.  Mossy  was  full  of  talk — metropolitan,  all 
of  it.  But  then,  the  metropolis  was  new  to  Derry,  and  had 
its  allurement.  Lady  Carrie  liked  to  know  everything,  money- 
gossip,  the  debts  and  difficulties  of  her  men-friends,  theatrical 
news,  and  every  possible  or  probable  society  esdandre.  Mossy 
had  a  whisky-and-soda  instead  of  tea,  and  drew  a  wrong  augury 
from  Derry's  readiness  to  fall  in  with  Carrie's  invitation  to 
join  him. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  said — Mossy  quickly  arrived  at  the 
"my  dear  fellow"  stage,  with  any  new  acquaintance — "there 
is  no  place  in  the  world  like  London;  you  take  it  from  me. 
What  have  you  seen?"  He  ran  through  the  musical  comedy 
list.  "I'll  take  you  round  to  the  'Corinthian'  to-night,  if  you 
like,  they  keep  two  stalls  for  me  always;  I  never  get  tired  of 
hearing  the  Etna  girl  do  that  song  and  dance.  It  seems  to 
me  silly  to  go  from  one  place  to  another  when  you  know  where 

88 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

you  can  find  exactly  what  you  like.  For  my  part,  I've  seen 
'The  Foolish  Virgins'  twenty-seven  times,  and  I  hope  to  see 
it  twenty-seven  times  more.  You  can't  get  tired  of  a  thing 
like  that." 

Derry  could  not  honestly  say  his  evenings  were  engaged. 
Rosaleen  kept  to  her  own  room  save  for  meal-times.  She 
had  learned  to  sew  in  the  convent,  and  was  putting  her  talent 
to  good  use,  stitching  no  happiness  in  with  the  fabric.  But 
before  Derry  she  could  not  even  ply  her  needle  easily.  Derry 
assented  to  the  evening  at  the  "Corinthian,"  but  he  would 
not  dine  with  Mossy  and  his  wife.  He  said  he  must  go  home 
to  dress;  he  would  join  them  at  the  theatre. 

It  was  when  he  had  gone  away  with  Mossy,  and  Mossy 
had  offered  to  drive  him  anywhere,  the  motor  having  nothing 
to  do,  and  he,  Mossy,  not  being  busy,  that  Derry's  curious 
address  was  disclosed. 

"But  why,  my  dear  fellow,  why  on  earth  Albany  Street?" 

"Carruthers'  clerk  recommended  the  rooms  to  me;  they're 
good  rooms  enough." 

"But  I  cannot  make  out  what  Carruthers  is  doing  with 
you.  She  told  me  you  were  short  of  money,  but  it  can't  be 
as  bad  as  Albany  Street.  Can  I  be  of  any  use  to  you?  Any 
friend  of  Lady  Carrie's,  you  know  ...  I  was  fond  of  your 
cousin  Terence.  My  wife  liked  him  at  the  house,  he  was 
good  company,  sang  a  good  song.  But  what's  this  about  the 
money  ?  There's  nine  thousand  acres  of  Ranmore,  isn't  there  ? 
You  might  have  to  let  the  Castle." 

All  the  while  Mossy  was  talking,  they  were  driving  through 
Bond  Street,  Maddox  Street,  Regent  Street,  now  by  Park 
Crescent. 

"Why  don't  you  change  your  mind  and  come  home  with 
me?  We'll  fetch  your  things.  I  suppose  your  man  could 
pack  them  ?" 

Since  Mossy  had  been  in  funds,  had  had  his  valet,  and  his 
motor,  and  other  luxuries,  he  had  forgotten  what  the  "simple 
life"  was  like.  It  really  did  not  strike  him  that  Lord  Ranmore 
had  no  personal  attendant. 

89 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"And  then  we  could  talk  over  your  affairs  before  dinner. 
It's  not  six  yet." 

Derry  insisted  he  must  dine  at  home.  And,  as  Mossy  put 
it,  he  began  to  smell  a  rat.  But  he  went  on  talking.  If  Lord 
Ranmore  was  short  of  money,  it  could  only  be  something 
temporary.  Mossy  had  no  doubt  he  could  get  him  a  loan, 
he  knew  all  the  right  people. 

"You  can't  go  on  living  in  Albany  Street,"  he  persisted. 
"The  thing  is  impossible.  Stay  at  the  'Savoy'  or  the  'Ritz,' 
if  you  don't  want  to  take  a  flat.  You're  a  mile  from  the  theatres 
here." 

Derry  had  no  greater  desire,  as  yet,  to  take  Mossy  into  his 
confidence  about  Rosaleen  than  he  had  had  to  speak  of  her 
to  Carrie.  But  Mossy  was  much  more  inquisitive  and  difficult 
to  baffle.  Derry  had  to  admit,  not  without  some  embarrass- 
ment, that  he  coujd  not  leave  Albany  Street  for  a  few  more 
days.  For  now  he  was  really  within  a  week  of  the  fulfilment 
of  the  law's  requirements. 

"You  needn't  tell  me  if  you  don't  like."  Mossy  was  good- 
nature itself.  "A  case  of  landlady's  daughter?  I  say,  don't 
you  get  yourself  in  a  mess.  You're  new  to  London,  you  know." 

Derry  seemed  very  young  to  Mossy,  but  he  was  not  as  ready 
to  condemn  him  as  "stupid"  as  Carrie  had  been.  Mossy 
saw  that  he  was  reticent,  and  guessed  there  was  something 
he  was  keeping  back,  while  Carrie's  vanity  had  made  her 
imagine  she  had  gauged  the  whole  of  Derry 's  mind  and  found 
nothing  in  it  deeper  than  the  perplexities  Carruthers  was 
creating. 

The  motor  stopped  at  the  number  that  had  been  given  to 
the  chauffeur.  Mossy's  curiosity  had  no  gratification  beyond 
the  normal  lodging-house  exterior  of  that  somewhat  dreary 
thoroughfare.  There  was  not  even  a  face  at  the  window, 
nor  the  swish  of  a  petticoat  in  the  narrow  passage  that  was 
all  the  quickly  opened  street  door  presented  to  his  sight.  Derry 
did  not  invite  him  in.  Mossy  thought,  in  fact,  that  Derry 
was  anxious  to  be  rid  of  him.  He  thanked  him  for  the  drive, 
and  promised  to  be  in  his  place  at  the  theatre  before  nine, 

90 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

when  the  first  "Etna"  number  was  due.  Mossy  did  not  say 
anything  about  supper  after  the  play.  He  was  a  little  unsure 
of  his  footing  with  this  strange  young  man.  He  found  himself 
pondering  about  him  as  he  drove  away.  Mossy  thought 
Deny  was  no  fool,  if  he  was  chary  of  talk.  The  very  sugges- 
tion of  a  woman  in  the  background  piqued  Mossy's  interest. 
He  was  at  the  very  opposite  end  of  the  pole  from  Mr.  Carruthers, 
and  his  way  of  conducting  his  business.  Mossy's  clients  were 
all  individuals,  men  and  women  to  him;  he  was  the  most  human 
of  scoundrels,  if,  indeed,  he  were  a  scoundrel  at  all,  and  not, 
as  one  would  prefer  to  consider  him,  merely  an  altruist  with- 
out boundaries.  Absolutely  all  the  way  back  to  Grosvenor 
Square  he  was  wondering  what  sort  of  woman  Deny  was 
keeping  in  Albany  Street,  trying  to  conjure  up  his  type,  deciding 
to  note  where  his  admiration  fell  that  night,  thinking  he  would 
get  to  know.  Among  Mossy's  appetites  was  the  appetite  for 
the  unknown,  and  already  his  interest  in  Derry's  affairs  was 
keen. 


CHAPTER  DC 

ON  the  1 2th  November,  at  the  Parish  Church  of  Maryle- 
bone,  Derrick,  Lord  Ranmore,  was  united  in  holy 
wedlock  to  Rosaleen  O'Daly.  It  was  quite  understood 
between  them  that  the  ceremony  was  not  to  alter  their  relations. 
What  it  meant  to  Rosaleen  was  a  sense  of  deliverance  so  great, 
so  overwhelming,  that  the  passion  of  gratitude  in  her  was  like 
a  flood-tide  now,  overflowing  all  the  banks.  She  could  not 
speak  to  him,  nor  raise  her  eyes  to  his;  but  she  could  think  of 
nothing  else,  and  how  she  could  ever  repay  him. 

Deny  thought  her  heart  was  all  the  time  with  Terence. 
He  was  full  of  pity  for  her  that  she  had  to  accept  him  as  sub- 
stitute. He  would  not  obtrude  on  her  grief,  nor  intrude  into 
her  confidence.  Overwhelmed  with  pity  and  sympathy  for 
her,  he  was  so  anxious  to  make  it  clear  that,  if  although  it  was 
he,  and  not  Terence,  who  was  standing  by  her  at  the  altar, 
it  was  only  as  a  substitute  he  was  there,  that  he  hardly  looked 
at  her,  or  spoke.  She  must  not  think  he  would  take  any 
advantage,  it  was  Terence's  widow  she  was  to  him  and  he 
would  not  intrude  on  her  trouble.  He  went  through  the  cere- 
mony, and  said  the  responses,  and  held  himself  so  well  in 
hand  that  she  never  guessed  his  passion  of  pity  was  as  strong 
as  her  passion  of  gratitude. 

He  had  put  the  ring  on  her  finger,  and  she  was  Lady  Ran- 
more right  enough;  now  the  more  he  kept  out  of  her  way  the 
better.  That  was  what  he  thought.  There  was  still  her  trou- 
ble to  come,  and  of  that  he  dared  not  let  himself  think. 

Rosaleen  could  not  guess  what  made  him  dumb  and  tongue- 
tied  in  her  presence,  and  kept  him  so  many  hours  out  of  the 
house.  Everything  was  difficult  for  them.  She  thought  that 
it  was  only  out  of  pity  he  had  married  her,  and  to  save  Terence's 
name  with  his  mother  and  sister;  and  she  was  as  shy  of  intruding 

92 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

her  company  upon  him  as  he  of  looking  upon  her  in  her  trouble. 
And  because  of  that  marriage  ceremony,  and  what  it  covered, 
she  was  one  flush  of  shame  now  before  her  newly  made  husband, 
the  shame  Terence  had  put  upon  her.  In  the  mantle  of  it, 
that  was  like  a  flame  about  her  always,  everything  was  burned 
out  but  her  gratitude. 

"She'll  be  thinking  of  Terence,"  was  really  Derry's  mental 
attitude.  His  sensitiveness  burned  like  her  shame.  It  was 
fire  kept  them  apart. 

Meanwhile  Mossy  was  trying  conclusions  with  Mr.  Car- 
ruthers. 

"Mind  you,"  he  said  to  Carrie,  "I'm  doing  what  I  can 
for  Deny  Ranmore,  but  I  don't  believe  you've  sized  the  fellow 
up  at  all.  In  the  first  place,  I'll  bet  a  monkey  he's  got  some 
woman  in  those  diggings  of  his  in  Albany  Street.  He  is  as 
close  as  wax  about  it,  but  I'm  pretty  nearly  sure." 

"That  would  certainly  be  a  complication."  Lady  Carrie 
blew  her  cigarette  smoke  softly  into  the  air.  "But  you  may 
be  wrong,  Mossy,  you  are  often  wrong,  you  know!" 

"I'm  never  wrong  in  this  sort  of  thing.  So,  if  you  want 
me  to  get  money  for  him,  in  order  that  you  can  get  it  out  of 
him" — Mossy  was  not  a  gentleman,  and  that  was  the  coarse 
way  he  worded  it — "it  is  possible  you're  reckoning  your  chickens 
before  they  are  hatched,  that  the  hatching  will  be  done  by 
another  little  hen." 

Carrie  only  smiled. 

"Are  you  going  to  get  him  any  money,  that  is  the  immediate 
question?  Don't  you  worry  about  me,  Mossy,  I  can  look 
after  myself." 

For  only  that  very  afternoon  Deny  had  been  with  her,  and 
he  had  walked  about  her  room  in  his  big,  clumsy  way,  lament- 
ing his  position — not  on  his  own  account,  but  because  he  must 
seem  so  mean  in  her  eyes. 

"I'm  getting   desperate  about  it,"   he  said.     "I   must  get 

hold  of  some  money  somehow.     If  my  aunt  and  Mr.  Carruthers 

don't  let  me  know  soon  how  they  are  going  to  arrange  matters, 

and  what  is  coming  to  me,  besides  the  title  that  is  no  good  to 

7  93 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

me  at  all,  and  the  Castle,  of  which  I  would  not  dispossess  her 
for  a  million,  I  shall  go  back  to  my  job.  There  was  a  post 
I  could  have  had  in  Siam,  up  at  Bangkok;  it's  still  to  be  had 
for  the  asking.  I've  more  than  half  a  mind  to  clear  out,  and 
leave  them  to  settle  it  any  way  they  like.  It's  only  you  I'm 
thinking  of,  you  and  ..."  Carrie  had  to  admit  to  Mossy 
Leon  that  he  paused  there,  as  if  she  were  not  all  his  responsi- 
bilities. There  might  be  something,  after  all,  in  what  Mossy 
suggested. 

"Can't  you  get  him  any  money?"  she  persisted,  nevertheless. 

"It  is  rather  a  curious  state  of  affairs,  one  that  could  only 
happen  in  Ireland.  There  is  no  will,  and  Terence's  mother 
and  sister  are  nominally  Terence's  heirs.  But  we  can't  get 
hold  of  the  title  deeds,  one  of  which  has  apparently  been  lost 
or  mislaid,  and  Carruthers  persists  there  is  no  entail,  although 
for  hundreds  of  years  the  lands  have  gone  with  the  title.  There 
are  about  nine  thousand  acres,  any  amount  of  copper,  and 
probably  coal.  The  Duchess  has  renounced  all  claim.  But 
the  old  woman  is  playing  grab;  she  seems  to  have  a  regular 
spite  against  our  man.  ..."  That  was  Mossy's  disrespectful 
way  of  speaking  of  Terence's  mother,  now  the  Dowager  Lady 
Ranmore,  who  had  spent  twenty  years  hi  nursing  Ranmore. 
"Our  friend  Deny  might  even  find  himself  a  rich  man  one 
day,"  Mossy  went  on;  "although  the  rental  is  comparatively 
nothing,  and  what  there  is  they  don't  get  since  O'Daly  was 
shot."  Mossy  had  been  getting  up  his  subject,  and  had  it  all 
at  his  fingers'  ends.  "I  can  get  him  a  certain  amount  of  money, 
on  his  prospects,  a  thousand  or  so,  anyhow.  But  I  could 
deal  ever  so  much  better  with  Carruthers  if  Ranmore  was  out 
of  the  way.  He  is  so  damned  close  in  some  things,  and  so 
damned  outspoken  in  others,  and  he  has  any  number  of  damned 
fool  scruples.  That's  not  a  bad  idea  of  his,  clearing  out.  Do 
you  think  you  could  keep  him  up  to  it?" 

Carrie  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"He  can't  go  without  money;  when  could  you  get  him  that 
thousand  ?"  she  asked. 

In  twenty-four  hours.  He'll  have  to  sign  a  bill,  and  insure 

94 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

his  life,  but  that's  all  right.  Is  he  in  earnest  about  going  to 
Siam?" 

"I  think  he  is  simply  beating  his  head  against  the  bars. 
He  has  not  an  idea  of  what  to  do  with  himself." 

"He  doesn't  look  happy,  that's  a  fact.  Ethel  thinks  he 
is  in  love  with  his  cousin;  he  has  spoken  of  her  once  or  twice." 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  quote  Ethel  to  me.  It  is  the 
sort  of  thing  she  would  think.  Ethel  could  not  understand 
anyone  not  being  in  love  with  a  duchess!  So  you've  enter- 
tained him  in  Grosvenor  Square?" 

"Oh,  yes,  he  has  dined  with  us.  I  like  the  fellow,  that's 
the  fact.  I  wish  he  had  a  little  more  brains,  or  a  little  less. 
I  could  put  the  screw  on  old  Lady  Ranmore  if  I  were  left  alone. 
I  have  an  idea  that  there  is  some  sort  of  a  row  on  between 
them — nothing  to  do  with  the  estate.  But  do  you  think  the 
ass  will  let  me  know  what  it  is?  Not  he!  And  he  won't  let 
me  go  over  to  Ireland  and  see  her,  or  search  the  Castle  for  the 
missing  papers,  and  he  won't  have  favors  asked  of  her;  and 
he  won't  do  this,  and  he  won't  have  that,  until  I've  half  a  mind 
to  throw  the  whole  thing  over." 

"Not  you!"  She  laughed  at  the  idea  of  Mossy  relinquishing 
the  case  because  he  could  not  get  all  his  own  way.  Then  she 
leant  forward,  and  the  little  yellow  fingers  that  held  the  cigarette 
rested  impressively  on  the  table. 

"You  get  him  the  money.  He'll  sign  anything  you  put 
before  him.  And  I'll  see  that  he  takes  that  post  in  Siam. 
We'll  get  Deny  out  of  the  way,  and  you  and  Henry  Carruthers 
can  have  all  the  law  you  want.  You  had  better  make  it  fifteen 
hundred,  Mossy,"  she  went  on,  reflectively;  "I'm  sure  it  is  all 
the  same  to  you.  You  mean  to  make  him  pay  for  it." 

"I  tell  you  I  like  the  fellow." 

"I  know.  But  you  won't  like  him  too  well  to  make  yourself 
safe." 

Wherein  Lady  Carrie  showed  that  she  did  not  undertsand 
Mossy  Leon.  He  never  made  himself  safe;  he  never  was  safe, 
as  the  end  proved.  He  borrowed  the  money  he  lent,  for  one 
thing,  and,  to  make  over-reaching  profits,  he  took  big  risks. 

95 

* 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

And  he  saw  too  far — into  the  day  after  to-morrow,  in  fact — 
whereas  to-morrow  always  came  first,  with  his  own  expenses 
that  had  to  be  met.  This  is  perhaps  foreign  to  the  immediate 
subject  in  hand,  which  was  Deny's  fifteen  hundred  pounds. 
But  Mossy  Leon  was  full  of  inconsistencies,  and  Carrie  Carthew 
never  had  the  insight,  or  the  sympathy  that  was  necessary  to 
penetrate  them. 

It  was  ever  difficult,  for  instance,  for  Mossy  to  take  a  purely 
business  interest  in  a  man  who  broke  bread  with  him.  Deny 
dined  two  or  three  times  in  Grosvenor  Spuare,  and  Ethel  gar- 
nished her  conversation  with  "Lord  Ranmore"  and  his  cousin 
"The  Duchess  of  Towcester."  The  nearest  Ethel  ever  got 
to  a  personal  acquaintance  with  a  Duchess  was  hearing  Margaret 
talked  of  by  Deny,  but  she  made  the  most  of  that.  Deny  had 
a  way  with  him,  not  quite  the  same  gay  way  as  Terence,  but  on 
the  same  lines.  He  soon  made  himself  at  home  with  people; 
he  had  too  great  a  simplicity  of  mind,  and  too  little  self-conscious- 
ness to  be  ill  at  ease.  Always  excepting  with  Rosaleen,  of 
course,  where  his  .very  simplicity  and  ignorance  of  a  woman 's 
heart  stood  in  his  way. 

Ethel  and  her  husband  were  at  loggerheads  on  nearly  every 
subject,  the  irritation  of  her  "superior"  airs  being  never  ending, 
but  they  were  agreed  about  Lord  Ranmore.  He  was  a  pleasant 
fellow,  a  good  listener  to  Mossy 's  stories,  and  either  he,  or  his 
title,  was  an  ornament  to  their  dinner-table. 

Mossy  was  not  going  to  rob  Deny.  He  would  borrow 
£1500  for  him,  and  he  could  sign  a  bill  for  £3000.  But  Mossy 
himself  paid  £2000.  As  a  financier  he  had  extraordinary  talent, 
but  it  was  of  the  bubble- blowing  type;  beautiful,  alluring  color 
was  the  essence  of  it,  but  it  was  not  solid. 

What  Mossy  found  unusual-r-but  then,  everything  about 
Deny  was  unusual — was  that  he  said  he  did  not  think  he  wanted 
fifteen  hundred  pounds,  he  thought  a  thousand  would  be  all  he 
would  need,  if  Mossy  would  be  able  to  get  him  another  thousand 
next  year.  For  now  Deny  had  made  up  his  mind  to  go  to  Siam, 
and  he  had  seen  the  representative  here  of  the  Government 
Department.  He  had  been  told  that  he  could  live  there  well 

96 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

enough  on  his  salary.  The  engagement  was  for  two  years,  and 
he  had  definitely  accepted  it. 

"I'll  not  be  keeping  a  secret  from  you,"  he  explained  to 
Mossy  in  the  end.  "It's  not  for  myself  I'm  wanting  it" — then 
he  flushed  a  little,  for  the  word  was  new  and  unaccustomed  on 
his  lips — "It's  for  me  wife." 

"What?"   said    Mossy.     "What?" 

Well,  now  that  the  ceremony  had  actually  taken  place,  it 
need  no  longer  be  kept  a  secret.  The  sooner  everyone  knew, 
those  at  the  Castle,  and  everybody,  the  better.  Yet  Deny  had 
to  force  himself  to  speak  of  it,  and  Mossy  saw  that  his  color  was 
heightened. 

"I  am  wanting  it  for  Lady  Ranmore,  and  ..."  He  was 
not  quite  sure  that  he  ought  to  tell  Mossy  half  of  it  was  for  Lady 
Carrie  Carthew.  Deny  was  under  the  impression — an  impres- 
sion conveyed  to  him  by  Carrie,  probably  with  a  purpose — 
that  Mossy  Leon  knew  Terence  had  helped  her  with  money. 
But  Carrie  had  also  conveyed  the  impression  that  what  she  had 
confided  to  Deny  about  her  husband's  death,  and  the  sup- 
pressed evidence  at  the  inquest,  was  not  to  be  talked  of  with 
the  lawyer,  who  had  arranged  it. 

Deny  had  been  prompted  very  cleverly,  and  now  his  affairs 
seemed  to  straighten  themselves  out.  He  found  Mossy  much 
easier  to  do  business  with  than  Mr.  Carruthers.  If  Mossy 
could  let  him  have  a  thousand  pounds  this  year,  and  a  thousand 
pounds  next,  and  take  off  his  shoulders  all  the  trouble  of  those 
accounts  and  papers  about  which  Carruthers  was  for  ever 
bothering  him,  he  would  divide  the  money  between  Carrie  and 
Rosaleen,  and  go  out  to  Siam  with  an  easy  mind,  as  he  had  been 
on  the  point  of  doing  when  Terence's  death  landed  him  in  this 
coil. 

Mossy  could  not  get  over  the  fact  that  Deny  had  a  wife. 
He  wanted  to  talk  about  nothing  else,  and  to  hear  who  she  was, 
and  all  about  her. 

"Ethel  will  be  surprised,"  he  said. 

Deny  admitted,  not  without  a  sense  of  guilt,  that  perhaps 
he  ought  to  have  mentioned  it  before.  But  having  mentioned 

97 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

it,  he  was  filled  with  confusion,  and  the  difficulty  of  explaining 
why  he  had  hitherto  kept  it  a  secret.  In  the  end,  because 
Mossy  was  curious  and  persistent,  and  used  to  worming  people 's 
secrets  from  them,  he  admitted  it  had  been  a  runaway  match. 
Mossy  soon  got  to  know  of  Deny 's  difficulties  about  the  English 
marriage  laws,  and  the  question  of  domicile,  and  the  three 
weeks'  delay.  Mossy  had  no  difficulty,  after  that,  in  realizing 
that  he  had  been  right  in  his  surmise.  She,  whoever  she  was, 
had  been  in  Albany  Street  all  the  time.  Quite  easily,  too,  he 
realized  that  this  marriage  was  the  point  of  the  difficulty  between 
Derry  and  his  family. 

Lady  Ranmore,  who  was  still  at  the  Castle,  and  the  Duchess 
would  have  nothing  to  do  with  Derry  and  his  wife.  Margaret 
had  never  said  she  would  have  no  more  to  do  with  him,  by  the 
way.  It  was  Derry  who  put  that  interpretation  on  her  silence 
since  he  had  refused  her  invitations  to  Dunstans. 

Carrie  made  no  difficulty  about  accepting  five  hundred 
pounds  from  Derry.  That  she  would  have  the  same  next 
year,  and,  after  that,  according  to  Derry 's  means,  was  quite 
pleasant  hearing.  If  those  means  were  large,  it  would  not  be 
any  fault  of  hers  if  her  share  were  not  proportionate. 

But  it  was  very  different  with  Rosaleen,  when  Deny  mooted 
his  plan  to  her.  He  was  not  very  clear  in  his  mind  as  to  what 
Rosaleen  would  do  with  herself  in  his  absence.  The  possibility 
of  asking  kindness  for  her,  from  either  of  the  two  women  with 
whom  he  was  just  now  thrown  into  such  constant  contact  had, 
of  course,  crossed  his  mind.  But  they  were  neither  of  them 
women  in  the  real  sense  of  the  word.  How  he  knew,  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  arrive  at,  for  he  found  Carrie  companionable,  and  Mrs. 
Leon  kind;  but  he  did  know,  instinctively,  and  could  picture 
neither  of  them  in  juxtaposition  with  Rosaleen.  Strangely 
enough,  too,  although  it  would  not  seem  strange  to  those  who 
knew  Mossy,  it  was  Mossy  that  Derry  thought  might  be  a  friend 
to  Rosaleen  in  his  absence.  There  was  so  much  humanity 
about  the  Jew.  He  talked  freely  about  women,  too  freely  for 
Derry 's  liking,  but  he  never  spoke  unkindly  of  them.  Deny 
was  in  several  minds  about  asking  Mossy  to  keep  an  eye  to  Rosa- 

98 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

leen  in  his  absence.  What  he  failed  to  reckon  for  was  Rosaleen  's 
attitude  in  the  matter. 

"Rosaleen,  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  Can  you  spare  me  a 
moment?"  he  said  desperately,  one  morning,  when  his  application 
had  been  made,  and  accepted,  for  that  berth  in  Siam,  and  nothing 
remained  but  to  take  his  passage  and  fix  his  date. 

"Will  it  suit  you  now,  or,  if  you  are  busy  .  .  .  ?"  He 
dreaded  intruding  upon  her,  or  seeming  to  intrude;  she  had 
withdrawn  herself  more  definitely  from  him  since  their  pretense 
of  a  marriage,  it  was  as  if  she  shrank  from  meeting  his  eyes, 
or  speaking  to  him  at  all,  since  he  could  call  himself  her  husband. 

For  answer  she  sat  down  again.  It  was  after  breakfast,  and 
she  had  no  where  to  go.  They  had  only  the  one  sitting-room,  and 
generally  she  left  him  there  with  his  cigar  and  his  newspapers. 
It  was  a  travesty  of  domesticity  through  which  they  were  passing. 

"  Is  it  talkin'  to  me   .    .    .  ?" 

"And  it's  talking  to  you  I'd  often  have  been  if  I  thought 
you  wanted  to  hear  me." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  those  mournful,  long-lashed,  great 
gray  eyes  of  hers,  and  her  lips  trembled. 

"You'll  be  sayin'?"  was  all  she  could  get  out. 

"Won't  you  sit  here  in  the  easy  chair?"  He  drew  it  forward 
for  her.  "You're  sitting  up  there  so  stiff  and  uncomfortable." 

He  had  got  used  by  now  to  ladies  who  lounged. 

Rosaleen  did  not  move.  He  thought  she  looked  at  him  with 
fear,  or  ...  dislike,  as  if  she  did  not  want  to  be  friends  with 
him.  But  it  was  not  so;  it  was  that  her  heart  was  beating  so 
tumultuously  that  it  choked  the  outlet  of  her  words. 

"I'm  thinking  what  you  would  like  to  do  with  yourself  when 
I  am  gone.  I  want  to  talk  it  over  with  you.  It  is  but  dull  you 
are  here  ..." 

Dull!  Was  dullness  the  word  for  the  desolation  of  her  days, 
the  gray  street  of  mean  houses,  the  pavement,  and  the  hours 
and  hours  by  herself?  But  he  had  slept  under  the  same  roof 
with  her,  she  had  the  consciousness  of  that,  and  of  his  generosity 
in  carrying  out  his  scheme  for  saving  her.  And  he  had  not  left 
her  quite  alone  in  the  world.  What  was  it  he  was  saying  .  .  .  ? 

99 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"I  am  going  abroad  soon.  Next  week,  or  the  week  after. 
I  want  to  see  where  I  shall  leave  you,  and  about  it  all." 

Only  the  two  words  remained,  beating  on  her  head  and  in 
her  ears. 

"Going  abroad!     You  are  leaving  me  here?" 

Desolation  then  was  before  her;  she  would  be  alone  in  this 
great  London,  no  step  for  which  to  listen,  no  voice  to  hear. 
Her  lips  trembled,  those  sweet,  thin  lips.  In  a  moment  the  old 
tenderness  wrung  his  heart,  and  he  went  on  hurriedly,  so  that 
she  should  not  see  his  lips  were  tremulous,  too. 

"There's  much  to  be  settled  about  the  estates,  and  I'm  in 
the  way  while  it's  being  got  through,  it  seems.  And  I  can't 
hang  about  here,  doing  nothing;  and  it's  miserable  you  are  with 
me,"  broke  from  him. 

"And  it's  less  miserable  you  think  I'd  be  when  you've  gone," 
came  through  the  sob  in  her  throat.  He  went  over  to  her,  not 
knowing  what  moved  him  so.  But  she  looked  so  forlorn. 

"Rosaleen,  shall  I  stay?" 

She  pushed  her  chair  back,  moved  from  near  him. 

"I've  been  feeling  this  week  past  you'd  be  glad  if  I  was  not 
here.  You  rush  away  as  soon  as  you  finish  your  meals.  I'm 
not  blaming  you,  not  a  minute";  his  voice  rose.  "You'll  not 
think  that  ?  I  know  you  can't  help  thinking  who  it  is  should  be 
in  my  place.  But  since  it's  like  that  with  you,  and  small  wonder, 
I  thought  you'd  rather  I  went  away  ?  It  will  be  better  perhaps, 
when  I  come  back.  I'd  like  to  have  told  you  about  it,  Rosaleen, 
we  were  friends  once,  about  the  country  I'm  going  to,  and  the 
strangeness  of  it,  but  you  haven't  wanted  to  talk  to  me." 

"I  thought — I  thought — "  but  her  voice  was  locked,  and  he 
could  not  hear  what  she  said.  Again  he  went  nearer  to  her, 
and  this  time  she  did  not  move  away. 

"I  thought  you  were  shamed  witii  me,"  she  said.  Her  head  was 
averted,  and  her  eyes  were  lowered,  but  he  could  see  the  color 
as  it  rose  rare  and  exquisite  in  her  white  skin,  and  painfully  to 
the  roots  of  her  hair.  As  for  her  voice,  it  was  but  a  whisper. 

"Shamed  with  you!"  His  voice  was  almost  as  low  as  hers, 
and  his  flush  was  little  less  deep.  "If  you  only  knew!"  A 

100 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

flood  of  reminiscences  swept  over  him.  .  .  .  "The  friends  that 
we  were,  although  I  think  you  were  always  shy  with  me.  Do 
you  mind  the  gorse,  and  the  day  we  caught  the  hare?"  She 
minded  it  right  enough.  "And  the  face  of  you  when  it  leaped  ?" 

"Micky  said  it  must  have  been  the  charm  ...  to  catch 
a  hare  in  your  arms." 

"And  then  I  let  it  go,  when  you  begged  me  ..." 

Suddenly  the  aptness  of  it  struck  him.  A  hare  she  was,  too, 
hunted,  without  a  shelter.  "It  ran  this  way  and  that,  not 
knowing  where  to  bide." 

"Like  me!"  there  was  a  sob  in  her  voice. 

"Oh,  Rosaleen!  But  you're  crying  .  .  .  it's  not  because 
I'm  leaving  you,  because  I'm  going  away!  Rosaleen  ..."  For 
an  answer  she  made  a  rush  for  the  door,  he  must  not  see  her 
falling  tears.  But  he  stopped  her,  putting  out  his  arms,  barring 
her  way.  A  great  idea  shook  his  voice. 

"You  wouldn't  go  with  me?" 

His  arms  stayed  her  going,  and  the  excitement  in  his  voice 
communicated  itself  to  her. 

"You  wouldn't  be  taking  me?" 

"  Wouldn't  I  ?  But  the  distance  of  it,  and  you'd  be  frightened 
to  go  with  me!  It's  exiles  we'd  be." 

"It's  an  exile  I  am,"  she  said,  that  moving  sob  in  her  throat. 

The  consciousness  that  he  wanted  desperately  that  she  should 
go  with  him  had  flashed  into  his  mind  like  lightning.  How  was 
it  that  he  had  not  known  it  all  along  ?  Why  should  he  leave  her 
behind?  She  would  grow  less  shy  with  him  soon,  and  in  a 
strange  country  it  would  go  hard  with  him  but  he'd  get  that 
sadness  out  of  her  eyes.  It  was  to  him  she  had  to  look,  and 
him  only.  What  was  it  possessed  him  to  think  he  would  leave 
her  behind? 

"I'm  afraid  you  will  have  to  rough  it."  He  felt  bound  to  put 
the  worst  of  it  before  her  as  the  anxiety  he  had  for  her  company 
grew.  "There's  a  bungalow  for  me  in  Bangkok,  but  most  of 
my  work  will  be  in  the  back  of  beyond,  up  country.  There'll 
be  only  black  servants,  and  the  great  heat,  and  mosquitoes." 
He  was  going  on  breathlessly ;  she  must  hear  the  worst  of  it.  "  I'm 

101 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

not  sure  about  the  food.  Sit  down  and  I'll  tell  you  ...  I'd 
love  you  to  come  with  me,  the  difference  it  would  make!" 

She  sat  down  to  hear  about  the  hardships.  If  there  were  no 
servants,  she  would  serve  him.  This  was  really  the  dawn  of 
Hope;  to  go  with  him  to  a  new  country.  It  was  leaving  her 
trouble  behind  her.  No,  it  was  not  that,  but  she  would  not 
think  beyond  going  away  from  here,  and  with  him.  And  that 
perhaps  she  could  wait  on  him,  serve  him. 

"It's  two  berths  I'll  be  taking  then,"  he  went  on,  triumphantly, 
tentatively,  watching  her  face.  While  he  had  been  telling  her 
of  all  the  hardships  she  must  expect,  he  noted  that  she  never 
blenched;  but  that  her  lips  were  nearer  to  a  smile  than  he  had 
seen  them  these  many  weeks. 

"  It's  not  hardships  I'm  fearing,  if  you  want  me  to  go  with  you." 

"  Rosaleen!" — he  was  emboldened  now.  "  We  must  be  friends 
again."  He  took  her  hand.  "  We'll  go  out  together  to  the  new 
country  and  I'll  take  care  of  you  all  I  know.  You've  been  shy 
with  me  these  days,  now  we'll  be  friends." 

She  sat  mute,  her  hand  in  his,  her  eyes  downcast. 

"It's  friends  only  I  mean.  You'll  not  be  afraid  with  me? 
I'll  not  forget."  He  drew  in  his  breath,  he  must  say  it.  And 
then  out  he  blurted  it,  he  was  so  happy,  he  did  not  know  why, 
but  he  wanted  her  to  share  his  feelings,  not  to  be  afraid  of  him, 
"I'll  not  forget  .  .  .  it's  .  .  .  it's  Terence's  widow  you'll  be 
to  me.  But  we'll  talk  together,  and  be  friends,  I  should  have 
been  horribly  lonely  out  there,  and  thinking  of  you  all  the 
time.  .  .  .  You  will  be  friends  with  me,  won't  you?" 

The  eyes  that  were  raised  to  him  now  were  not  mournful. 
The  dark  gray  depths  of  them  were  alight. 

"Ah!  and  I'll  be  that,"  she  answered,  fervently. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  new  era  their  talk  inaugurated  had  a  thousand  charms. 
Rosaleen  forgot  to  be  unhappy  when  Deny  was  talking 
eagerly  of  plans  and  outfit.  It  was  strange  to  her  at  first, 
and  difficult,  to  be  taking  money  from  him  for  so  many  clothes 
that  he  said  she  must  have.  It  seemed  a  dreadful  amount  of 
money  he  was  spending,  quite  soon  she  was  anxious  about  his 
improvidence  and  trying  to  keep  him  from  buying  this  and  that. 
Mossy  Leon  and  Lady  Carrie  Carthew  saw  little  of  Deny  during 
the  last  days  of  his  stay  in  London.  These  were  spent  in  shop- 
ping. And  now,  at  breakfast  and  lunch  and  dinner,  there  was 
much  to  talk  about,  and  she  no  longer  left  him  the  room  to 
himself,  but  sat  pn  listening  while  Deny  talked  of  their  new 
life,  and  sometimes  even  he  caught  glimpses  of  the  old  Rosaleen, 
with  a  glint  in  her  eyes  and  the  dimple  about  the  corners  of  her 
mouth — sometimes,  not  often. 

Deny  had  obtained  a  list  of  what  was  wanted  for  the  East. 
He  bought  clothes  and  flannels.  Nothing  would  serve  him  but 
that  Rosaleen  should  have  muslins,  and  cotton  dresses,  and  thin 
underwear.  Sometimes  there  were  embarrassing  moments,  but 
he  was  extraordinarily  tender  and  considerate  of  her  feelings, 
and  sensitive  to  her  moods.  He  was  full  of  his  intention  that 
there  should  be  friendship  between  them.  He  was  very  happy. 
Was  he  not  fulfilling  all  his  promises?  Carrie  had  her  money, 
poor  little  woman;  and  now  he  knew  he  would  never  let  Rosaleen 
out  of  his  care.  He  could  not  talk  to  Rosaleen  about  Lady 
Carrie.  The  mere  hint  that  there  had  been  love-making  between 
her  and  Terence  made  it  impossible.  But  he  could  tell  her 
about  Mossy,  and  how  the  lawyers  would  straighten  out  affairs 
between  themselves  when  he  was  in  Siam. 

103 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Aren't  you  going  to  introduce  me  to  your  wife  before  you 
go?"  Mossy  asked  him.  "Why  don't  you  bring  her  to  have  a 
bit  of  dinner  with  us?  We  never  see  anything  of  you  now." 

Carrie,  of  course,  adopted  a  different  attitude.  She  took  it 
for  granted  that  Berry's  wife  was  not  presentable.  She  did  not 
ask  him  to  bring  Rosaleen  to  see  her,  although  the  announce- 
ment of  the  wedding  had  been  in  the  Times  and  Morning  Post, 
and  she  had  no  valid  reason  for  her  course  of  action.  But  it 
was  characteristic  of  Carrie;  she  hated  to  be  bored,  and  she 
thought  the  sort  of  wife  Derry  would  have  chosen  and  married 
in  this  way  would  be  certain  to  bore  her;  she  had  his  money,  and 
her  hold  on  his  sympathy. 

Derry  was  doubtful  about  taking  Rosaleen  to  dine  with  Mossy. 
He  was  not,  however,  nearly  as  doubtful  or  reluctant  as  Rosaleen 
when  the  idea  was  mooted  to  her.  But  for  Mossy's  persistence, 
and  the  lack  of  reasonable  excuse  for  refusal,  it  would  never 
have  come  about,  although  Mrs.  Leon  called  in  her  fine  carriage, 
and  left  a  note  of  invitation. 

Mrs.  Jobson  was  Ethel's  criterion  of  fashion.  Mrs.  Jobson, 
who  lisped,  and  whose  friendship  with  an  Irish  baronet  was  her 
claim  to  be  considered  in  society,  had  said  that  "it  was  hardly 
pwoper  Mrs.  Leon  should  continue  to  receive  Lord  Wanmore 
wivout  his  wife."  Mrs.  Jobson  had  a  curiosity  to  see  the  new 
Lady  Ranmore;  she  had  seen  the  dowager.  She  implied  to 
Ethel  that  it  had  been  at  Dublin  Castle;  but,  in  truth,  it  was  when 
she  had  been  in  service  as  cook-housekeeper,  during  one  of  the 
intervals  when  Jobson,  who  was  an  ex-solicitor's  clerk  had  seen 
no  way  of  making  a  living,  and  been  content  that  his  wife  should 
do  it  for  him.  In  Dublin,  Mrs.  Jobson,  then  not  without  a  fair 
and  comfortable  prettiness,  had  met  the  baronet,  and  returned 
triumphantly  to  London,  setting  up  an  establishment  in  which 
he  figured  as  a  paying  guest.  Since  then  Mrs.  Jobson  and  Sir 
Patrick  Setwell  had  become  quite  features  in  Kensington. 
Ethel  was  more  intimate  with  this  woman  than  with  her  mother, 
or  any  of  her  own  sisters,  she  really  was  under  her  influence. 
Mrs.  Jobson,  who  was  even  more  pretentious  than  Ethel,  thought 
it  was  essential  Lord  Ranmore  should  bring  his  wife  to  Gros- 

104 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

venor  Square.  She  quoted  Sir  Patrick  on  the  subject,  she 
thought  that  to  quote  a  baronet's  opinion  gave  weight  to  her 
own! 

It  was  absolutely  essential,  according  to  Mrs.  Jobson,  that 
Lord  and  Lady  Ranmore  should  dine  with  the  Leons,  and  the 
fact  be  duly  chronicled  in  the  Morning  Post. 

Mrs.  Jobson  advised  Ethel  to  write  that  they  would  be  alone, 
or  practically  alone.  "Sans  ceremonie"  was  what  Ethel  wrote. 
Mrs.  Jobson's  knowledge  of  French  was  a  minus  quantity. 
Derry  translated  the  words  to  Rosaleen,  and  explained 
them. 

"It  means  you  are  not  to  bother  about  dressing,  or  anything. 
They  are  nice  people,  and  hospitable.  I'd  like  you  to  come 
there  with  me." 

"But  they  are  grand  folk,  and  I  shan't  know  what  to  say  to 
them.  Leave  me  behind  you,  Derry;  you  go,  it's  you  they  want." 

"You'll  have  to  get  used  to  going  out  with  me.  It's  Lord  and 
Lady  Ranmore  we  are."  Derry  saw  that  it  was  as  Lord  and 
Lady  Ranmore  they  were  going  away  together.  It  had  grown 
quite  clear  with  him  now  that  they  must  appear  before  the  world 
as  husband  and  wife.  He  had  a  great  contentment  over  this; 
everything  was  easier,  too,  now  he  and  Rosaleen  could  talk. 
He  built  light  conversational  bridges  to  bear  him  over  the  gaps 
that  came  between  them. 

"They're  not  grand  folk  at  all;  at  least,  Mossy  isn't."  He 
was  not  quite  so  sure  about  Ethel,  her  pretentiousness  had  some- 
what impressed  him.  "He  is  just  a  kind-hearted,  genial  fellow, 
and  they'll  be  proud  to  welcome  you." 

There  were  discussions  about  what  Rosaleen  would  wear. 
Derry  said  it  didn't  matter  at  all,  for  the  sans  ceremonie  had 
been  accepted  by  him  as  genuine. 

"Sure  and  it  doesn't  matter  what  you'll  wear;  you'll  look 
the  beauty  you  are  in  whatever  it  is,"  he  said.  It  was  not 
often  he  allowed  himself  to  pay  her  compliments.  She  blushed 
at  this  one. 

"It's  yourself  that  will  be  the  only  one  to  think  it,"  she 
answered. 

105 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

She  put  on  one  of  the  muslin  dresses  Deny  had  bought  for 
her,  and  plaited  her  hair  neatly.  She  wanted  to  be  creditable 
to  him. 

Her  heart  beat  very  unevenly  on  the  way  to  Grosvenor 
Square.  It  oppressed  her  to  be  called  Lady  Ranmore,  and 
she  thought  a  great  deal  about  that.  But  she  owed  everything 
to  Derry,  and  she  hoped  his  friends  would  not  look  down  upon 
her.  This  was  Rosaleen's  first  definite  realization  that  she 
must  try  to  be  equal  to  the  position  she  had  been  given.  Derry 's 
simplicity  saw  no  difference  between  them.  He  had  been  a 
poor  relation,  she  a  poor  dependent,  of  the  great  house.  But 
Rosaleen  knew  that  Derry  was  "one  of  the  family,"  and  she 
the  daughter  of  their  farm  bailiff.  Her  humility  was  alive 
with  pride.  She  was  full  of  fear,  but  would  not  show  she  was 
afraid.  Had  this,  her  first  entry  into  Society,  been  of  a  more 
auspicious  nature,  had  her  sensitiveness  not  been  cruelly  attacked 
and  wounded  on  this  first  brave  essay,  she  would  have  shown 
her  quality  more  quickly.  But  it  is  not  an  Ethel  Leon  who 
can  play  hostess  to  a  new-comer  in  a  strange  world,  and  make 
her  at  home  in  it. 

The  muslin  frock  that  was  donned  for  that  dinner  was  short 
in  the  skirt,  and  high  in  the  neck.  Rosaleen  had  made  it 
herself,  and  she  thought  it  a  grand  affair.  Round  her  waist 
there  was  a  black  ribbon.  Rosaleen  was  taller  than  most  women, 
although  she  came  little  higher  than  Derry 's  collar.  She  was 
pale,  the  intense  blackness  of  her  hair  giving  a  fine  transparency 
to  her  pallor.  Her  gray  eyes,  set  rather  deeply,  were  shaded  by 
lashes  incredibly  long;  the  delicate  pencilling  of  her  brows  had 
a  trick  of  restlessness,  moving  when  she  spoke  or  laughed. 
Her  face  was  very  thin,  and  her  lips  softly  pink,  with  tremulous 
curves.  To-night  she  had  divided  the  great  thickness  of  her 
hair  in  plaits,  and  round  and  round  her  small  head  she  had 
wound  them.  It  was  not  until  they  arrived  at  the  big  house 
in  the  Square  that  she  had  any  misgiving  as  to  her  appearance. 
What  she  should  say,  and  do,  had  been  her  fear,  not  how  she 
would  look.  She  had  little  or  no  personal  vanity. 

There  was  an  awning  before  Mossy  Leon's  door,  and  three 

106 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

powdered  footmen  were  in  the  hall.  Rosaleen  was  already 
startled  and  would  have  clung  to  Derry's  arm.  She  did  not 
understand  she  was  to  follow  the  maid  to  take  off  her  cloak. 
"I'll  leave  it  with  ye,"  she  said.  But  Deny  coaxed  her  to  go. 

She  had  been  in  grand  rooms  at  Castle  Ranmore,  but  she 
had  seen  nothing  like  Mrs.  Leon's  bedroom.  At  Ranmore 
the  dark  wainscoted  rooms  were  lit  by  candles.  Here  there 
was  a  blaze  of  electric  light,  and  Rose  du  Barri  hangings,  gold 
bottles  and  gold-backed  brushes  on  the  dressing-table,  and, 
above  all, — worse  than  all, — a  dozen  fine  cloaks  on  the  bed, 
all  chiffon,  and  fur,  and  grandeur.  And  it  was  alone  Deny 
had  said  they  would  be  dining  with  the  Leons!  There  was 
enough  of  the  woman  in  Rosaleen  to  see  the  difference  between 
the  black  cape  she  had  on  and  those  fine  cloaks.  She  would 
not  look  at  herself  in  the  glass.  All  her  courage  was  needed 
to  get  her  to  where  Derry  waited  for  her  in  the  hall. 

"It's  a  big  dinner-party  they  are  giving,"  she  whispered  to 
him. 

"I  know;  but  it  will  be  all  right,  you'll  enjoy  yourself." 

"I'll  do  everything  wrong."    There  was  despair  in  her  voice. 

"Not  you!" 

The  big  doors  of  the  drawing-room  were  thrown  open,  and 
they  heard  their  names  called  out. 

"Lord  and  Lady  Ranmore." 

Ethel  stood  near  the  door  to  receive  her  guests.  Ethel 
mistook  emaciation  for  elegance,  and  prided  herself  on  her 
eighteen  inch  waist.  She  had  a  new  dress  to-night,  an  elaborate 
confection  of  velvet  and  old  lace.  She  wore  all  her  jewels — 
the  diamond  coronet,  the  two  rows  of  matched  pearls,  and  many 
diamond  brooches.  Her  dress  was  cut  so  low  that,  even  in  her 
trepidation  and  alarm,  Rosaleen  could  be  confused  for  her, 
and  ashamed  to  look  at  such  nakedness.  It  really  is  difficult 
to  tell  who  was  the  more  shocked,  Ethel  at  Rosaleen 's  appear- 
ance, or  she  at  Ethel's. 

What  a  figure  to  present  to  her  guests!  was  Ethel's  comment. 
"Shure,  an'  it's  naked  she  is  entirely,"  was  Rosaleen 's  as  she 
looked  away. 

107 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Ethel  was  dreadfully  mortified  at  having  to  present  such  a 
figure  to  her  guests.  She  did  not  know  what  Mrs.  Jobson 
would  say. 

Even  Deny  saw  that  something  was  wrong.  There  was 
no  mistaking  the  curiosity  and  surprise  on  the  faces  of  the 
other  guests,  or  Ethel's  strangulated  reception  of  the  intro- 
duction. In  her  white  high  frock,  short  in  the  skirt,  and  her 
braided  hair,  Rosaleen  was  different  from  all  the  other  guests 
in  their  low  dresses  and  diamonds.  The  vexation  on  his  face 
lest  she  should  feel  the  difference,  Rosaleen  thought  was  dis- 
satisfaction with  her.  And  now  there  was  a  cold  piece  in  her 
heart;  it  was  shame  she  would  bring  upon  him. 

When  Mossy  offered  her  his  arm  to  take  her  in  to  dinner, 
she  did  not  know  what  it  was  he  was  meaning,  sticking  his 
elbow  out  like  that.  She  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  it. 
They  were  watching  her,  she  felt  they  were  all  watching  her. 

Had  Mossy 's  acquaintances,  or  Ethel's  friends,  been  drawn 
from  the  class  that  the  Duchess,  for  instance,  would  have 
gathered  about  her  board,  neither  the  ill-bred  surprise,  nor  the 
ill-bred  curiosity  would  have  been  manifested.  But  these 
were  not  well-bred  people,  and  the  Irish  country  girl,  so  strange 
to  her  position,  felt  the  rudeness  of  their  staring  without  knowing 
how  to  resent  it. 

There  were  sixteen  people  settling  into  their  places  round 
that  over-decorated  dinner-table.  When  Rosaleen  entered 
the  room,  not  having  taken  Mossy 's  arm,  but  by  his  side,  and 
preceding  the  others,  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  business  of 
taking  their  seats  was  subordinate  to  their  business  of  concen- 
trating curious  eyes  upon  her.  They  were  cold  eyes,  and  curious. 
Mossy  noticed  nothing  unusual  about  Rosaleen,  except  perhaps 
the  quality  of  her  beauty.  He  was  an  emotional  person,  and 
it  struck  him  almost  from  the  first.  "My  God!  I  never  saw 
such  eyes  in  my  life,  and  what  a  skin!"  represented  Mossy 's 
impression  of  Derry's  wife.  He  neither  noticed  her  clothes, 
nor  the  reception  the  women  gave  her,  or  he  might  have  found 
a  way  to  make  her  feel  at  home.  He  was  really  the  soul  of 
hospitality,  and  good-nature  personified.  But  he  was  knocked 

108 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

over  by  her  great,  mournful  eyes,  white  skin  and  pink,  pathetic 
lips,  he  did  not  even  want  to  talk  to  her  just  yet. 

On  his  other  side  was  Mrs.  Jobson,  and  Mrs.  Jobson  being 
his  pet  aversion,  he  thought  it  necessary  to  be  extra  civil  to  her. 
The  woman,  whatever  she  had  been  in  her  youth,  when  she 
had  netted  her  poor  boor  of  a  Baronet,  was  now  in  her  aggres- 
sive and  scandal-loving  middle  age,  unwieldy  in  bulk,  and 
essentially  common-looking.  That  she  wore  a  blue  feather 
in  her  hair,  and  affected  coquettishness,  only  brought  this  out 
more  learly.  Mossy  always  said  one  could  see  the  landlady 
in  her.  When  she  meant  to  be  ingratiating,  he  found  her  only 
obsequious.  It  was  extraordinary  that  she  had  impressed  Ethel 
as  a  desirable  acquaintance. 

"The  idea,"  Mrs.  Jobson  said  to  Mossy,  as  soon  as  they 
were  seated,  "of  his  bwinging  a  cweature  like  vat  here  wiv 
him!  Where  could  he  have  met  her?  Not  at  ve  Castle, 
I'm  sure."  And  she  laughed.  Her  laugh  was  common,  too, 
and  affected.  Mossy  did  not  realize  for  the  moment  about 
whom  she  was  talking.  Mrs.  Jobson  always  talked  ill-naturedly, 
it  was  what  she  understood  by  conversation.  She  went  on  to 
suggest  there  must  be  some  scandal  about  the  new  Lady  Ran- 
more,  and  to  guess  its  nature.  But  to  Mossy  already  Rosaleen 
was  a  rare  creature.  And  presently,  when  he  had  seen  that 
everything  was  all  right,  and  the  dinner  beginning  to  go,  he 
would  concentrate  on  her.  But  he  looked  around  his  table 
with  inward  dissatisfaction.  He  hated  the  type  of  people  in 
whose  society  Ethel  found  pleasure.  His  instincts  were  so 
much  finer  than  hers. 

On  the  other  side  of  Rosaleen  was  Sir  Patrick  Setwell.  Mossy 
could  not  stand  Sir  Patrick  either.  The  Irish  baronet  had  an 
ill-balanced  head,  narrow  forehead  and  coarse  jaw,  he  had 
high  Calmuckian  cheekbones,  with  an  unhealthy  flush  upon 
them,  the  hands  of  a  navvy,  and  the  manners  of  a  boor.  His 
stupidity  was  so  dense,  that,  in  contrast  with  it,  Mrs.  Jobson 's 
lisped  ill-nature  appeared  bright.  The  long-standing  acquaint- 
ance between  them  had  influenced  what  little  of  character  he 
had.  She  had  estranged  him  from  his  mother,  and  his  barren 
8  109 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

acres,  and  now  that  he  was  her  creature,  he  cut  but  a  poor 
figure  in  the  surroundings  she  had  chosen  for  him.  A  half- 
witted chuckle  of  laughter  when  she  spoke  to  him  across  the 
able,  was  almost  his  only  contribution  to  the  hilarity  of  the 
occasion.  Sir  Patrick  had  taken  Lady  Pentacle  in  to  dinner. 
Mrs.  Job  on  was  very  strict  about  etiquette,  and  kept  Ethel 
up  to  the  mark.  Lady  Pentacle 's  first  husband  had  been  a 
City  grocer.  The  distinguished  K.C.B.  whose  name  she  bore, 
had  married  her  in  his  dotage.  Lady  Pentacle  was  old  too, 
now,  although  she  wore  a  youthful  black  wig.  Her  two  rows 
of  false  teeth  moved  constantly  in  her  narrow  mouth,  like 
those  of  an  animated  rabbit,  chewing  an  imaginary  cabbage. 
She  was  another  of  Mrs.  Jobson's  "paying  guests,"  the  centre 
of  a  little,  grasping,  bridge-playing  circle  she  gathered  together 
in  the  Kensington  drawing-room,  and  out  of  whom  she  made 
her  living. 

Mr.  Jobson  was  of  the  dinner-party.  He  looked  like  a  seedy 
waiter,  in  a  very  low  collar;  he  had  a  neck  like  that  of  a  withered 
chicken,  a  furtive  manner,  and  a  deprecatory  way  of  clearing 
his  throat.  Mrs.  Jobson  made  a  point  of  being  attentive  to 
him  in  public,  and  would  say  what  old  "fwiends"  he  and  Sir 
Patrick  were. 

Mrs.  Macklesfield  was  another  of  what  Mossy  called  the 
"Jobson  brigade";  an  under-bred,  over-dressed,  black-eyed, 
Colonial  woman,  in  a  Parisian  dress  thick  with  gajidy  embroidery, 
a  turban  head-dress,  decorated  with  diamonds,  but  inhar- 
monious in  color,  and  more  jewelry,  more  diamond  chains, 
ropes  of  pearls,  and  ill-assorted  Maltese  and  Runic  crosses  in 
rubies  and  emeralds,  than  one  would  have  thought  it  possible 
could  be  concentrated  on  one  human  being.  She,  too,  was 
coquettish;  she  and  the  old  Indian  civilian,  without  whom  she 
went  nowhere,  were  known  as  the  "turtle-doves."  Mrs. 
Macklesfield  was  very  rich,  ambitious  of  social  advancement, 
and  ignorant  of  how  it  was  to  be  achieved.  The  Indian  civilian 
dined  with  her,  and  drove  with  her,  and  was  seen  with  her 
everywhere.  He  had  only  a  pension. 

Mrs.  Streeter  was  a  more  decorative,  tall  and  beautiful 

110 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

woman  with  white  hair,  in  a  pink  brocaded  dress.  She  raised 
her  tortoise-shell  lorgnette  and  surveyed  Lady  Ranmore  with 
quiet  insolence. 

"Who  did  you  say  she  was?"  she  asked  Ethel,  quite  aloud, 
and  without  any  consideration  for  anybody's  feelings.  "Lady 
Ranmore?  Oh!" 

Derry  sat  opposite  Mrs.  Streeter,  and,  turning  her  lorg- 
nette now  upon  him,  she  asked  sweetly: 

"Is  your  wife  a  foreigner,  Lord  Ranmore?" 

"A  foreigner!     The  saints  forbid!" 

"She  is  so  unlike  an  ordinary  Englishwoman." 

"My  wife  is  Irish,"  he  answered  shortly.  He  was  beginning 
to  see  the  difference  between  Rosaleen  at  the  other  end  of  the 
table,  and  all  those  other  women,  in  their  decollete  dresses 
and  jewelry.  No  man  can  guess  all  that  a  woman  feels  at 
such  a  disadvantage;  but  Derry  saw,  or  suspected,  something 
of  the  malice  in  Mrs.  Streeter's  inquiry. 

"She  has  not  been  out  at  all,"  he  went  on;  "she  is  straight 
from  her  convent  school."  He  turned  to  Ethel.  "You  said 
'without  ceremony' — that  you'd  be  alone."  And  then  his 
pride  would  not  let  him  make  excuses  for  her.  "It's  she  that 
will  be  shocked  with  your  clothes  here." 

If  it  had  been  only  the  clothes,  there  would  have  been  little 
harm  done.  But  the  etiquette  of  the  dinner-table,  and  the 
society  laws  that  obtained,  were  each  fresh  stumbling-blocks 
to  poor  Rosaleen,  at  the  end  of  the  table,  the  cynosure  of  these 
curious  eyes.  f 

Mossy  took  everything  about  her  for  granted.  With  all 
the  disadvantages  of  her  dress  and  braided  hair,  he  realized 
the  quality  of  her  rare  good  looks,  and  they  took  him  captive 
immediately. 

"You  don't  like,,  caviare?  Of  course,  you're  right.  It's 
only  decayed  entrails,  but  it's  the  fashion  to  like  it." 

Rosaleen  had  never  seen  caviare  before.  The  Bortsch  wras 
equally  strange  to  her,  and  she  refused  the  cream. 

"I  say  you've  got  no  appetite  at  all!  .  .  .  How  do  you 
like  London?"  he  asked  her. 

Ill 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

He  thought  those  mournful  eyes  she  turned  on  him  were 
astoundingly  beautiful,  they  almost  took  his  breath  away. 
If  he  noticed  at  all  that  anyone  was  staring  at  her,  he  would 
have  put  it  down  to  that.  He  wanted  to  stare  at  her  himself. 

"  'Tis  a  rare  sad  place,  I'm  thinking,"  Rosaleen  answered 
in  a  low  voice. 

"Sad!  Cheery,  I  call  it.  What  have  you  seen?  I  suppose 
Derry  has  taken  you  to  a  play  or  two,  or  to  the  Palace  ?  They've 
got  a  clever  girl  at  the  Palace  now;  sings  a  good  song  in  a  new 
way." 

"Is  't  to  the  King's  Palace  you're  meaning  Derry  should 
have  taken  me?"  she  almost  whispered,  gazing  on  Mossy 
with  something  like  awe.  She  was  trying  to  hold  on  to  her 
courage,  but  the  low-necked  dresses,  and  the  servants  that 
kept  offering  her  things  she  did  not  want,  and  the  looks  she 
saw  directed  to  her,  the  jeers  she  suspected,  made  it  a  desperate 
venture.  Mossy  seemed  kind,  kinder  than  anybody  who  was 
there.  But  what  was  it  he  was  asking  her  about  the  Palace? 
Was  he  only  making  fun  of  her?  It  took  Mossy  a  minute  to 
realize  her  meaning.  Then  he  shouted  with  laughter  and 
repeated  what  she  had  said  to  his  neighbor. 

"She  thought  Flossie  Delaporte's  engagement  was  at  Buck- 
ingham Palace!" 

The  mistake  did  not  seem  anything  very  out  of  the  way 
to  Mossy,  who  knew  Rosaleen  had  been  brought  up  in  a  convent, 
and  was  fresh  from  Ireland.  In  repeating  it  he  merely  wanted 
to  give  the  talk  a  roll,  to  help  on  the  bonhomie  and  geniality 
that  seemed  to  be  lacking  from  the  dinner-party.  Ethel's 
dinner-parties  generally  did  lack  hilarity;  when  he  wanted  to 
enjoy  himself,  he  chose  his  own  guests.  He  was  annoyed 
when  Mrs.  Jobson  answered. 

"The  idea!   Where  on  earf  did  Lord  Wanmore  pick  her  up?" 

He  turned  away  from  her  quite  abruptly,  he  never  spoke 
to  her  again  that  evening.  He  hoped  Rosaleen  had  not  heard; 
he  was  sure,  in  his  optimism,  that  Rosaleen  had  not  heard. 
But  of  course  she  had,  and  now  she  was  yet  more  confused 
and  ill  at  ease.  And  Mossy's  manner  to  her  failed  to  help. 

112 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Mossy  was  one  of  those  convivial  spirits  who  get  drunk  with- 
out drinking.  One  glass  of  champagne,  the  exhilaration  of 
having  discovered  a  new  beauty,  the  desire  to  protect  her  from 
Mrs.  Jobson's  ill-nature,  combined  to  make  him  extraordinarily 
talkative.  He  asked  the  bewildered  girl  if  she  had  ever  thought 
of  going  upon  the  stage.  He  promised  her  his  influence,  and 
told  her  what  he  had  done  for  other  good-looking  girls.  And 
then  he  was  busy  with  his  hospitality,  sending  this  bottle  round 
to  one  man,  recommending  something  else  to  another.  Mossy 
wanted  all  his  guests  to  be  happy,  and  to  enjoy  themselves, 
to  eat  and  drink  of  the  best.  Even  if  they  were  not  the  guests 
he  would  have  chosen,  it  was  equally  on  his  mind  that  he  was 
their  host.  He  really  did  not  notice  how  little  Rosaleen  answered 
him,  how  monosyllabic  were  her  answers.  Mrs.  Jobson  asked 
her  whether  she  played  "bwidge,"  and  got  a  hurried,  ingenuous 
admission  that  she  did  not  know  what  it  was.  Maliciously, 
then,  one  and  another  asked  her  questions.  She  became  more 
and  more  uncomfortable,  her  brogue  increased,  and  her  ignor- 
ance and  unfitness  for  her  position  seemed  to  her  to  be  com- 
pletely exposed. 

"Is  it  plays  you're  talkin'  of?  An'  I've  never  seen  a  play 
at  all,"  she  told  Mossy  desperately.  "It's  meself  that  never 
was  out  of  the  convent  till  I  went  to  the  Castle,  to  wait  upon 
her  ladyship." 

The  words  seemed,  even  in  her  own  ears,  to  be  loud  across 
the  dinner-table.  Mrs.  Streeter's  lorgnettes  were  turned  full 
upon  her.  Mrs.  Jobson  grew  quite  pink,  and  said  "Ve  idea!" 
remembering  that  she  had  been  in  service  herself,  but  hoping 
that  no  one  else  would.  Sir  Patrick  emitted  one  of  his  ill- 
bred  chuckles;  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  Rosaleen,  but  of 
course  she  thought  it  had.  It  was  only  Mossy  who  thought 
nothing  at  all  of  what  she  had  said.  He  was  ever  more  of  a 
talker  than  a  listener,  and  he  wanted  to  tell  her  about  the  first 
play  he  ever  saw.  What  did  it  matter  whether  she  had  been 
in  service,  or  what  she  had  been,  with  eyes  like  these,  and 
such  a  delicate  rarity  of  flush  ?  Yet  it  was  Mossy  who  deepened 
her  confusion  to  breaking-point. 

113 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Of  course  you  knew  Terence  then,"  he  said.  "Bright 
fellow,  wasn't  he?  Everybody  loved  him.  I  suppose  you 
didn't  get  off  scot-free.  ..." 

She  gazed  at  him  with  fear-distended  eyes,  and  her  mouth 
went  dry.  It  was  unfortunate  that  was  the  moment  the  finger- 
glasses  were  placed.  If  your  mouth  goes  dry  and  it's  water 
that's  put  before  you,  what  can  you  do  but  drink  it? 

In  Kensington  and  Hampstead,  Belsize  and  Regent's  Park, 
all  the  localities  from  which  Ethel's  friends  were  drawn,  it 
was  told  for  many  a  day  how  Lady  Ranmore  drank  from  her 
finger-glass.  Ethel's  sudden  rise  and  movement  before  the 
fruit  had  been  served  was  a  move  of  exasperation.  This 
was  the  last  straw  of  aggravation.  Her  vaunted  guest  had 
admitted  she  had  been  in  service,  now  she  drank  from  the 
finger-glass.  Ethel  heard  the  titters  quite  as  loudly  as  Rosaleen. 
They  hurt  her  almost  as  much.  She  could  have  borne  it  better 
if  Ellaline  had  not  been  present.  Ellaline  was  the  Ayscough 
sister  who  had  married  a  stockbroker,  and  lived  at  Dorking. 
Ellaline  had  had  much  to  bear.  It  was  mere  human  nature 
for  her  to  whisper: 

"It  is  so  good  of  you,  dear,  to  give  me  a  chance  of  meeting 
'really  nice  people.'  One  has  so  little  opportunity,  living 
in  the  suburbs,  of  seeing  how  'really  nice  people'  behave." 

Ethel  colored  with  annoyance.  She  always  invited  Ellaline 
with  some  such  preamble  as  the  one  quoted.  She  loved  to 
make  Ellaline  think  she  lived  in  the  centre  of  fashionable 
society.  She  had  no  sense  of  humor,  and  could  not  bear  the 
tables  being  turned  upon  her  like  this.  She  had  no  repartee 
ready,  and  could  not  conceal  her  mortification.  It  was  at 
its  height  by  the  time  Rosaleen  reached  the  drawing-room. 
She  could  have  borne  everything  better  if  Ellaline  had  not 
been  there  to  see  it. 

Rosaleen  did  not  even  reach  the  drawing-room  first,  as  she 
ought  to  have  done.  She  missed  the  signal  Ethel  gave,  or 
did  not  know  what  it  meant.  She  had  kept  her  seat  until 
Mossy  said: 

"That's  right,  Lady  Ranmore.  You  stay  and  talk  to  us!" 

114 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Then  with  a  fresh  flush  of  confusion,  she  had  understood, 
and  got  up. 

They  were  all  in  the  drawing-room  when  she  got  there, 
the  curious,  ill-bred  women,  and  Mrs.  Streeter,  whose  lorg- 
nettes seemed  concentrated  on  her  face  like  burning-glasses. 
How  she  wished  for  the  quiet  of  her  small  bedroom  at  Albany 
Street!  What  had  her  host  said  about  Terence?  Had  Deny 
heard?  And  what  did  he  mean  at  all?  How  unfit  she  was 
to  be  here  among  Berry's  fine  friends!  The  things  she  had 
done  at  dinner!  And  now  those  burning-glasses  on  her  face. 

"You  waited  on  Lady  Ranmore,"  Mrs.  Streeter  began,  in 
those  sweet  tones  of  hers  that  carried  as  much  malice  as  Mrs. 
Jobson's  lisp.  Mrs.  Streeter  could  not  bear  that  there  should 
be  other  good-looking  women  in  the  world.  She  was  quite 
virtuous  herself,  and  thought  her  condition,  considering  her 
beauty,  quite  exceptional.  She  had  never  had  a  lover;  her 
little,  respectable,  consumptive  husband  sufficed  her  coldness. 
But  she  suspected  all  other  beautiful  women,  drew  her  skirts 
away  from  the  contamination  of  them,  and  hated  them  for 
the  happiness  that  had  been  denied  to  her.  "Do  tell  us  why 
you  left.  Was  she  pleased  when  you  married  her  son?" 

"It  wasn't  Mr.  Deny  that  was  her  son.  It's  Lord  Ranmore 
that  was  her  son."  Rosaleen  had  no  weapon  with  which  to 
meet  this  insolence.  She  went  red  and  white,  and  looked  to 
this  side  and  another  like  a  trapped  animal,  as  she  answered 
in  the  simplicity  of  her  confusion. 

But  Mrs.  Streeter  had  made  a.  faux  pas,  and,  of  course,  Mrs. 
Jobson  drew  immediate  attention  to  it. 

"Fancy  you  not  knowing  Lord  Ranmore  has  only  just  come 
into  ve  title!  I  should  have  thought  you'd  have  known  vat, 
Mrs.  Streeter."  Mrs.  Jobson  laughed.  "Though  of  course, 
it's  not  as  if  you  had  ever  mixed  in  ve  Castle  set.  ..." 

In  parrying  Mrs.  Jobson's  attack  Mrs.  Streeter  let  go  her 
hold  on  Rosaleen.  The  glasses  were  directed  elsewhere  for 
a  moment,  and  Rosaleen's  face  could  begin  to  cool. 

Her  hostess  took  no  notice  of  her  at  all.  Those  among  the 
guests  who  were  not  actively  malicious  had  not  the  manners 

115 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

to  approach  her.  For  a  few  minutes  she  stood  quite  isolated 
and  strange  among  them.  Then  there  was  a  movement 
made  to  the  dressing-rooms.  There  was  powder  to  be 
replaced,  and  fringes  to  be  adjusted  before  the  men  rejoined 
them.  Bridge  was  to  be  the  order  of  the  evening.  Already 
two  or  three  green  cloth-topped  tables,  each  with  its 
ordered  burden  of  cards  and  markers,  were  incongruous  in 
the  elaborately  upholstered  room.  Rosaleen  was  neglected, 
or  forgotten  for  a  moment.  And  she  seized  upon  her 
opportunity  like  a  famished  dog  upon  a  bone.  She  wanted  to 
move  out  of  the  focus  of  these  curious  eyes.  She  wanted  to  be 
alone  again,  to  cool  the  burning  of  her  cheeks,  and  still  the 
tumultuous  beating  of  her  heart.  She  went  out  of  the  drawing- 
room  when  they  did,  but  it  was  not  upstairs  to  the  bedroom  she'd 
be  going  with  them.  They  did  not  want  her,  she  was  not  of 
their  kind.  She  was  flying  downstairs  while  they  were  chattering 
about  each  other's  jewelry  and  clothes.  She  was  down  the 
stairs,  and  through  the  street-door,  before  anyone  noticed  she 
was  gone.  She  had  not  waited  to  find  her  cloak;  she  would  not 
face  again  the  blaze  of  light  in  the  pink  room. 

Down  the  stairs,  and  through  the  hall  she  darted,  as  if  the 
lorgnettes  and  that  sweet,  insolent  voice  would  pursue  her.  A 
wondering  footman,  startled  into  politeness,  opened  the  door 
for  her. 

Now  she  was  in  the  street,  panting.  She  did  not  stop  to  look 
this  way  or  that,  she  was  afraid  they  would  be  after  her.  She 
took  to  her  heels  like  a  child  pursued  by  fear,  round  the  Square, 
and  down  Grosvenor  Street,  never  pausing  until  Bond  Street  was 
passed,  and  two  or  three  corners  doubled,  and  she  could  feel 
herself  safe. 

But  Rosaleen's  costume  of  white  muslin,  without  coat  or  hat, 
was  even  more  conspicuous  in  Regent  Street  than  it  had  been  in 
Grosvenor  Square.  She  paused  to  take  her  bearings  when  she 
reached  the  Circus,  and  in  that  pause  a  man  came  up  and  spoke 
to  her.  Of  course  it  was  an  outrageous  thing  for  him  to  have 
done,  seeing  that  he  was  a  married  man,  on  his  way  home  to 
Portland  Place,  after  a  decorous  game  of  billiards  at  his  club. 

116 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

But  he  had  never  seen  her  on  the  street  before,  and  her  looks 
were  unusual  and  striking.  Perhaps,  however,  it  was  unneces- 
sary to  try  to  excuse  him. 

Rosaleen  was  a  little  dazed  by  now.  The  man  seemed  kind 
when  he  spoke  to  her;  but  it  was  out  of  the  way  of  everybody 
Rosaleen  would  be  flying.  There  was  no  sense  or  reason  in  her 
action,  already  she  knew  she  ought  not  to  have  run  away,  to 
have  left  Deny  behind,  to  have  behaved  so  childishly.  And  now 
she  had  lost  her  bearings. 

"Are  you  looking  for  anybody?  Is  there  anything  I  can  do 
for  you?"  Willie  Henhouse  asked  her.  She  stopped,  regarding 
him  doubtfully;  and  emboldened,  he  went  on: 

"I  think  we  must  have  met  somewhere.  You  don't  remember 
me,  perhaps?" 

"I've  never  set  eyes  on  you,  I'm  thinking."  Even  that  short 
speech  was  enough  to  betray  her  country. 

"Surely  we  met  in  Ireland.     Won't  you  try  and  remember?" 

"Is  it  from  Ireland  you  are?  Then  perhaps  I  can  ask  you. 
It's  Albany  Street  I'm  looking  for;  it's  my  way  I've  lost.  Am  I 
near  there  belike?" 

Albany  Street  was  hardly  an  address  to  assure  a  man  about 
town  that  he  had  made  a  mistake  in  addressing  the  young 
woman. 

"We  are  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  Albany  Street.  You 
will  let  me  walk  with  you;  or  perhaps  you'd  rather  drive?" 

"I'll  be  thankful  to  you,  I'd  rather  walk,"  she  said  simply.. 

It  was  the  strangest  experience  for  Willie  Henhouse.  He 
walked  by  her  side,  steering  her  carefully  down  by-streets  and 
out  to  Portland  Road  Station.  They  might  have  passed  his 
own  house,  but  of  course  he  avoided  that.  He  talked  all  the 
time  about  Ireland,  and  why  she  had  left  it,  the  length  of  her 
stay  in  London,  and  so  on.  She  never  answered  him  at  all,  or 
if  a  word  fell  from  her,  even  he  could  see  that  her  thoughts  were 
elsewhere.  When  they  came  to  the  corner  of  her  street,  her  face 
lit  up  in  recognition. 

"I'll  not  be  troublin'  you  any  further,"  she  said.  "For  it's 
here;  and  thank  you  kindly  for  bringing  me." 

117 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  Willie  answered.  "Of  course  you  are 
going  to  ask  me  to  come  in  with  you?"  Now  he  caught  hold  of 
her  arm.  She  wrenched  it  from  him  indignantly. 

At  that  moment  Berry's  hansom  drew  up,  he  was  out  of  it 
before  it  had  time  to  pull  up,  out  of  it  and  on  to  Willie. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  it?  What  do  you  mean?" 

He  had  hold  of  him. 

"Run  home,  Rosaleen,  run  home."  He  shook  Willie,  who 
was  a  little  man,  well  known  in  the  rubber-market,  but  insignifi- 
cant outside  of  it.  Willie  Henhouse  thought  he  had  got  himself 
into  a  tight  place,  of  course  this  was  her  bully,  this  big  fellow 
who  had  a  grasp  like  iron  on  his  arm.  Willie  had  quick  visions 
of  blackmail,  and  esclandre,  and  no  end  of  horrors.  He  looked 
desperately  up  and  down  for  a  policeman,  but  there  was  no 
policeman  in  sight. 

"It's  your  life  I'll  be  shaking  out  of  you!  How  dare  you 
speak  to  that  lady?" 

Rosaleen  had  not  obeyed  his  injunction  to  run  home.  She 
stood  by,  wondering  at  Berry's  strength,  and  the  great  size  of 
him.  But  now  she  thought  she  would  speak. 

"It's  me  that  asked  him  the  way  in  Regent  Street."  Berry 
dropped  Willie's  arm,  and  turned  round  to  urge  she  should  go 
away  home.  "I'd  lost  my  bearings  ..." 

You  cannot  be  a  dealer  in  the  rubber  market  and  lack  smart- 
ness. The  very  moment  Berry  dropped  his  arm,  Willie  had 
his  foot  on  the  step  of  the  waiting  hansom. 

"A  sovereign  when  you  get  me  to  Portland  Place,"  he  shouted 
to  the  man. 

The  London  cabman  looked  at  Berry,  and  at  the  girl  in  her 
white  dress.  Then  he  gave  his  new  customer  a  solemn  wink. 

"Hell  for  leather,"  said  Willie,  and  the  man  whipped  up  his 
horse.  Whichever  of  the  two  swells  was  in  the  right,  was  not 
for  Cabbie  to  inquire.  He  had  brought  the  other  from  Gros- 
venor  Square,  and  he,  too,  had  urged  speed.  But  a  quid  is  a 
quid,  and  he  whipped  up  his  horse. 

This  night's  experience  was  not  one  that  Willie  Henhouse 
ever  related;  he  was  in  a  sweat  of  apprehension  until  he  was  safe 

118 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

inside  his  own  door.  He  was  a  married  man,  and  lived  habitually 
in  impeccable  domestic  virtue.  What  had  induced  him  to 
embark  upon  such  an  adventure  he  could  not  imagine.  His 
mind  led  him  to  blackmail,  and  a  thousand  dangers  he  had 
escaped.  It  was  a  most  wholesome  lesson  to  Willie,  and  one  by 
which  he  profited. 

As  for  those  left  behind  on  the  pavement,  it  was  Deny  who 
spoke  first. 

"How  came  you  to  do  it,  Rosaleen?"  he  asked.  He  opened 
the  door  with  his  latch-key,  and  drew  her  into  the  shelter  of  the 
narrow  passage.  Still  holding  her  arm,  he  led  her  up  to  the 
sitting-room,  then  turned  on  the  gas. 

"How  came  you  to  do  it?"  He  was  quite  breathless,  white 
round  the  nostrils;  and  the  look  in  his  eyes  was  different  from 
any  she  had  ever  seen  in  them. 


CHAPTER  XI 

HOW  dared  that  man  lay  hold  of  you?" 
He  had  her  arm  himself,  and  he  did  not  leave  go, 
although   now   they  were   in  the  sitting-room.     She 
made  no  effort  to  free  herself  from  him. 

Deny  had  been  full  of  anxiety  when  he  heard  that  "Lady 
Ranmore  had  gone  home,"  although  the  exact  manner  of  her 
going  had  not  been  told  him.  Mrs.  Leon  had  said  she  feared 
she  was  unwell,  but  Derry  had  not  been  very  attentive  to  Ethel's 
artificial  surmises.  He  had  made  his  excuses  as' quickly  as  he 
could  and  dashed  after  her.  He  was  filled  with  misgivings. 
Having  made  her  accept  the  invitation,  he  knew  the  experiment 
had  not  been  a  success.  In  the  cab  as  he  dashed  after  her,  he 
was  tender  and  pitiful  in  his  thoughts  of  her.  And,  for  some 
reason  or  another,  unrecognized  even  by  himself,  the  tenderness 
and  pitifulness  were  less  quixotic,  and  more  primitive,  than  any 
he  had  as  yet  allowed  himself.  To  Derry  it  seemed  that  Rosaleen, 
although  she  was  different,  had  more  than  held  her  own  among 
those  second-class  ladies  at  Ethel's  party.  Derry  had  no  fault 
to  find  with  the  high  frock;  the  crown  of  black  hair  was  more 
becoming  than  jewels;  the  white  skin,  with  the  geranium  flush 
that  came  and  went,  was  more  beautiful  than  painted  cheeks. 
Yet  because  of  his  own  sensitiveness,  he  had  guessed  something 
of  how  she  must  have  been  feeling  among  them.  When  he  heard 
she  had  gone  home,  he  knew  he  must  follow  her.  Then,  when 
he  came  up  to  her,  and  saw  her  on  the  pavement,  talking  with 
a  man,  a  man  who  laid  a  sacrilegious  hand  upon  her  sleeve,  he 
had  lost  his  self-control. 

"How  dared  he  lay  hold  of  you?"  he  asked. 

Rosaleen  was  facing  a  Derry  that  was  new  to  her,  one  with 
anger  in  his  face,  and  excitement.  He  hurt  her  with  the  tight- 
ness of  his  grasp,  but  she  had  no  fear  of  him. 

120 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Are  you  angered  with  me?"  she  asked  wonderingly. 

"What  did  he  say  to  you?" 

"He  said  he'd  be  glad  to  see  me  a  step  on  me  way." 

"Be  damned  to  him!    be  damned  to  him!" 

"And  'twas  when  he  said  that  I  might  ask  him  to  come 
in  ..." 

"And  you  ..."  his  grasp  tightened. 

"It's  bruising  me  you  are."     She  tried  to  get  free. 

"Oh,  yes,  'tis  he  that  might  hold  you;  you  that  can't  bear  I 
should  touch  you." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  then  she  met  his  eye,  saw  a  light,  an 
intentness  in  them,  and  lowered  her  own. 

"Anybody  but  me  may  touch  you,"  he  said  sullenly. 

"'Tis  cruel  you  are,  cruel!"  Her  hands  went  up  to  hide  her 
face.  But  he  took  them  down,  and  held  them,  and  forced  her 
eyes. 

"You  like  me  less  and  less." 

"It's  not  the  truth  you're  speaking."  This  was  quite  low. 
And  then,  because  of  her  own  heart  that  was  clamoring,  or  because 
of  what  she  saw  in  his  eyes,  having  once  before  seen  the  same 
look  in  a  man's  eyes,  she  was  suddenly  one  burning  blush,  and 
her  head  drooped  like  a  wilted  flower  on  a  stalk. 

"You're  hurting  me;  let  go  my  hands." 

"You  know  I  would  not  hurt  you." 

"You've  been  good  to  me."     There  was  a  sob  in  her  throat. 

"Not  as  good  as  I'd  like  to  be;"  he  was  a  little  beside  himself; 
"you  only  half  trust  me." 

"You're  angry  with  me  for  running  away,  for  leaving  the 
house  like  that,"  she  said,  in  confusion,  conscious  still  of  that 
light  in  his  eyes,  which  might  be  anger. 

"It's  not  angry  with  you  at  all  I  am."  Now  his  voice  was 
as  soft  as  a  caress.  Then  he  tried  to  remember  all  he  had  for- 
gotten. But  she  looked  so  beautiful,  standing  before  him  in 
confusion,  in  fear  almost,  now  pale  and  now  flushed,  and  so 
like  a  girl,  the  very  girl  who  had  caught  his  love  in  the  Ranmore 
woods,  that  he  heard  his  own  heart  beating,  and  his  breath  was 
caught  in  his  throat,  as  it  might  be  with  a  man  in  face  of  physical 

121 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

danger.  Perhaps  it  was  fear,  too,  that  she  heard  knocking.  If 
her  eyes  drooped,  his  had  a  sudden  hunger  in  them;  and  yet  he 
was  ashamed. 

"  If  you'd  never  met  Terence  at  all  .  .  ."  he  found  himself 
saying;  it  was  only  by  accident  the  words  slipped  out,  it  was  as 
if  he  were  thinking  aloud,  and  then  was  ashamed  of  the  words 
as  he  heard  them,  and  stopped  abruptly.  The  fitful  color  in 
her  face  faded  to  whiteness;  an  anguish  of  memory  and  shame 
seized  her. 

"Ay,  if  I'd  never  met  him,  if  I'd  never  set  eyes  on  him!"  she 
echoed. 

He  mistook  the  strain  in  her  voice,  the  hopeless  misery  of  it. 
How  could  he  know  that  every  hour  since  she  had  been  through 
that  empty  ceremony  of  marriage  with  him,  the  memory  of 
Terence,  and  what  Terence  had  made  of  her,  had  become  more 
and  more  unbearable  ?  She  looked  back  in  shame,  and  forward 
she  could  not  look  at  all.  She  had  been  through  so  many 
emotions  this  evening;  but  when  Deny  said  to  her,  "If  you'd 
never  met  Terence  at  all!"  it  was  agony  that  shot  through  her  at 
the  thought  of  what  might  have  been!  .  .  .  She  dropped  on 
the  floor  at  his  feet,  her  head  went  down  on  her  arms;  she  was 
only  a  peasant;  she  broke  out  into  weeping,  and  her  slight  form 
was  shaken  with  sobs.  Derry  dared  not  trust  himself  to  stoop 
and  gather  her  in  his  arms;  he  walked  up  and  down  in  agitation 
instead,  and  said: 

"Oh!  don't,  now,  don't!"    And  "Give  over,  do!   Give  over!" 

He  only  felt  that  he  had  frightened,  shocked,  outraged  her, 
brute  that  he  was,  unfit  for  his  charge.  She  had  loved  his 
cousin,  and  was  mourning  for  him  all  the  time;  these  wild  sobs 
were  for  him.  He  hated  himself  for  what  he  had  said.  He 
forgot  exactly  what  he  had  said,  but  he  knew  what  he  had  meant 
or  felt.  Only  for  a  moment,  it  had  only  been  for  a  moment,  he 
had  lost  his  self-composure.  She  must  not  sob  like  this.  He 
stopped  before  her  abruptly. 

"  Give  over  crying  like  that,"  he  said.  "  It's  Terence's  widow 
you  are,  sure  enough,  I  wasn't  meaning  anything  but  taking 
care  of  you.  It  wasn't  angry  with  you  at  all  I  was,  only  resentful 

122 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

when  I  saw  that  man  touch  you.     And  so  he  would  have  been 
himself.     It's  his  widow  you  are  to  me." 

She  was  ashamed  of  her  wild  sobs,  they  ceased  quite  abruptly. 
His  words  were  like  a  douche  of  cold  water  on  them;  it  "was  only 
Terence's  widow  she  was  to  him.  She  got  up  slowly,  keeping  her 
face  averted  from  him.  But  indeed  he  was  not  looking  at  her. 

"  It's  been  a  long  day,  and  trying   ..." 

"Good  night  to  you,"  she  said  dully.     "I'm  sorry  ..." 

"There's  no  need." 

She  was  sorry  she  had  failed  him  so  miserably  at  the  grand 
party,  sorry  her  self-control  had  broken  down  for  that  wild 
moment  on  the  floor.  If  she  was  sorry  for  something  beyond 
that,  some  stilling,  stunning  words  that  reverberated  in  her  ears, 
she  was  not  conscious  of  it.  Dully  she  said: 

"Good  night,"  and  "I'm  sorry." 

"There's  no  need,"  he  answered.  He  had  hurt  her  by  his 
words  about  Terence,  and  in  her  hurt  she  had  cried  out.  That 
was  all. 

He  opened  the  door  for  her.  She  passed  through,  then  she 
came  back,  hesitating. 

"  It's  getting  late,"  he  said  quickly.  "  Good  night."  He  held 
the  door. 

"Would  you  rather  I'd  not  be  going  out  to  Siam  with  you? 
You'd  be  freer  alone.  I'll  be  a  drag  and  a  hindrance  to  you." 
Now  she,  too,  was  speaking  very  quickly.  "It's  not  Lady 
Ranmore  I'm  fit  to  be,  anyhow,  and  after  to-night  ..." 

"You  were  the  greatest  lady  of  them  all  to-night." 

"You'd  best  be  leaving  me  behind." 

"You're  not  trusting  me,  because  .  .  .  because  I  lost  me 
temper  with  you." 

"I'm  trusting  you  to  the  death.  But  .  .  .  but  it's  disgracing 
you  I'll  be!"  Her  voice  was  low,  and  the  sob  was  not  far  from  it. 

"You'll  not  be  doing  that." 

"It's  the  wrong  thing  I'll  be  for  ever  doing.  It's  a  grand  lady 
you  ought  to  have  had  for  your  wife,  and  not  me  at  all,  at  all. 
I  ought  not  to  have  let  you  do  it;  it's  selfish  I've  been  to  you. 
But  you'll  be  free  if  you  go  to  this  new  country  alone." 

123 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Come  in  a  minute." 

She  came  back  into  the  room,  and  he  shut  the  door  be- 
hind her. 

"  Will  you  sit  down ?"  He  pushed  a  chair  toward  her.  "Do 
you  mind  if  I  smoke?  We  won't  go  to  bed  this  night  without 
talking,  and  it's  not  so  late."  He  knew  he  must  reassure  her, 
and  perhaps  himself.  She  obeyed  him,  coming  back  and  sinking 
into  the  chair  he  gave  her,  she  was  just  tired.  But  all  she  was 
thinking  was  that  she  was  nothing  but  a  tie  to  him,  and  that  he 
should  leave  her  behind. 

"It's  a  poor  Irish  country  girl  I  am,  it's  nothing  but  the 
cooking  and  the  needlework  I  know.  Your  aunt  said  I  was 
light-footed  after  her,  and  quick  to  learn,  but  what's  that  to 
yourself?" 

Derry  did  not  want  to  speak  too  quickly.  He  filled  his  pipe 
very  deliberately.  At  first  his  fingers  trembled,  but  at  the  end 
they  were  steady. 

"We've  got  to  go  out  there  together.  Don't  be  thinking 
too  much  about  the  future,  let  us  go  on  as  we  were  going.  To- 
night was  strange  to  you.  I  ought  to  have  helped  you  more,  and 
I'm  sorry  I  lost  my  temper  at  the  end,  here  in  this  room  .  .  .  ." 

He  had  finished  filling  his  pipe,  now  he  lit  it. 

"  It  was  that  man  .  .  .  of  course  I  understand  now.  What 
I  want  you  to  get  clear  is  that  we  have  undertaken  this  thing 
together,  and  we've  got  to  carry  it  through.  It's  Lady  Ran- 
more  you  are,  and  nothing  is  going  to  alter  it.  All  we've  done 
would  go  for  nothing,  if  you  let  me  go  away  alone.  What 
would  they  think  up  at  the  Castle?" 

He  knew  he  did  not  want  to  part  with  her,  that  was  all  he 
would  allow  himself  to  know  just  now.  Nothing  had  happened 
to  make  them  change  their  plans.  He  did  not  know  she  was 
as  little  anxious  to  part  from  him  as  he  from  her.  They  had 
no  glossary  as  yet  to  each  other 's  language. 

And  yet  she  felt  she  was  not  as  unhappy  as  she  had  been  a 
few  moments  ago.  He  did  not  want  to  lea^e  her  behind.  She 
listened  to  his  arguments,  and  he  went  on  arguing,  perhaps 
with  himself. 

124 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"I'll  go  with  you,  if  you  want  me  to,  and  gladly,"  she  said, 
in  the  end.  "And  I'll  bear  myself  as  Lady  Ranmore  as  best 
I  may.  You'll  not  be  hard  on  me,  if  it  comes  slow?  I'll  try 
to  make  myself  worthy." 

She  had  risen  from  her  chair,  and  now  he,  too,  got  up  again. 
He  had  quite  subdued  himself,  and  there  was  nothing  left  of 
that  primitive  feeling  which  had  seized  him  on  seeing  another 
man's  hold  on  her  arm.  In  the  reaction  he  felt  quite  cold  to 
her.  She  looked  very  tired  and  very  young.  It  was  a  long 
way  they  were  going  together. 

"It's  getting  late,"  was  all  he  said.  "We've  a  good  bit  to 
be  seeing  to  to-morrow." 

She  felt  the  reaction  so  much  more  quickly  than  she  had  felt 
the  approach. 

"Good  night." 

But  he  did  not  go  to  bed  himself  for  quite  a  long  time  after 
that.  He  sat  and  smoked  and  looked  into  the  fire.  He  could 
not  see  happy  pictures  there,  of  wife  and  children,  as  other  men 
might  have  done;  nor  of  Castle  Ranmore  with  himself  at  the 
head  of  it.  What  he  saw  at  first,  as  he  sat,  was  not  the  future, 
but  the  past.  Terence  welcoming  the  raw,  shy  schoolboy  that 
he  was  when  he  first  went  to  Ranmore.  Terence,  before  he 
went  back  to  his  school  in  Belfast,  pouring  out  the  contents  of 
his  own  ill-provided  pockets,  dividing  everything  into  two 
halves.  One  half  must  always  be  for  Deny.  And  the  letter  or 
two  that  would  come  from  him,  not  very  well  written,  not  very 
well  spelt,  for  Terence  was  never  a  scholar  .  .  .  The  letters 
held  so  much  of  himself  that  Deny  used  to  think  it  wasn't 
Terence  writing,  but  Terence  speaking:  "I  miss  you  horridly 
here,  old  man.  I've  got  no  one  to  bully  nor  order  about,  and 
I'm  spoiling  for  a  turn-up  with  you,  and  hugging  afterward. 
Margaret  says  I'm  to  tell  you  there'll  be  the  trout  this  time,  and 
you're  not  to  have  grown  any  more,  or  the  shadow  of  you  will 
frighten  the  fish." 

"I  promised  I'd^ok  after  her  for  him,"  Deny  said  drearily 
to  himself,  as  he^nishecl  looking  back,  and  got  up  from  the 
chair,  "and  look  after  her  I  will,  but  ..." 
9  125 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

The  "but"  was  so  loud  and  tumultuous  that  it  ticked  from 
the  clock,  it  was  like  a  voice  in  the  close  little  room.  He  stretched 
himself,  and  meant  to  go  off  to  bed.  As  he  had  said,  there  was 
much  to  do  to-morrow,  one  of  the  few  to-morrows  that  were 
left  to  them  in  England.  But  what  was  the  use  of  going  to  bed 
and  lying  awake,  thinking?  There  was  so  much  thinking  to 
be  done,  and  he  had  done  none  of  it,  he  had  only  acted:  that 
was  his  way,  his  young,  impulsive  way.  Now,  quite  suddenly, 
and  for  the  first  time,  misgiving  seized  him,  a  cold,  uncanny 
thing  to  seize  a  man  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Cohorts 
of  doubts  suddenly  assailed  and  buffeted  him.  For  all  the 
"buts,"  the  only  answer  was  the  irritating  tick  of  a  cheap 
American  clock.  They  stopped  him  in  the  middle  of  that 
healthy  stretch  of  himself.  He  had  felt  the  youth  and  strength 
and  muscle  in  it,  but  .  .  .  had  he  overburdened  his  strength  ? 
He  was  going  out  to  a  new  country,  to  work  he  hardly  knew, 
he  was  taking  a  girl  with  him,  taking  a  wife  with  him  .  .  . 
taking  Terence's  widow  with  him.  Even  now  that  he  was  alone 
he  flushed  at  the  thought  of  it.  She  was  Terence's  widow. 
But  what  were  his  own  feelings  toward  her?  Misgiving  was 
a  cold  and  haunting  thing,  and  the  little  room  was  hot,  stuffy, 
unbearable.  Yet  to  go  to  bed  and  lie  awake,  and  look  back 
or  forward,  was  impossible. 

Rosaleen,  listening  upstairs,  as  every  night  she  listened  for 
the  sound  of  Berry's  going  up  to  bed,  heard  instead  the  slam 
or  the  street  door.  He  had  gone  out.  He  could  not  bear  the 
small  rooms  or  his  own  thoughts.  Deny  walked  over  half 
London  that  night,  getting  his  blood  cool.  He  saw  a  gray 
London,  half-blind,  with  shuttered  windows,  inexpressibly 
dreary  and  unfriendly.  What  lay  before  him  in  that  strange, 
distant  country  would  surely  be  better  than  this.  The  gray 
deepened,  and  now  the  houses  were  silhouetted  against  a  fitful 
black  sky,  gusty  clouds  showed  no  stars  nor  promise.  His 
courage  was  at  its  lowest  ebb  just  then.  How  alone  he  would 
be  in  the  new  country!  He  would  take  hoLwith  him,  but  he 
would  not  see  too  much  of  her.  It  was  nQ  himself  she  was 
wanting,  only  to  nurse  her  grief.  And  wasn't  it  enough  if  he 

126 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

could  stand  by,  and  be  of  help  to  her  sometimes — she  was  but 
a  girl?  Then  the  clouds  began  to  spread,  and  over  the  whole 
of  the  sky  there  came  a  lightening.  After  all,  he  was  young 
and  strong,  and  he  had  only  done  for  Terence  what  Terence 
would  have  done  for  him.  Didn't  he  leave  his  squirrel  in  the 
cage  one  never-to-be-forgotten  holiday,  when  he  was  little 
more  than  ten  years  old,  leaving  it  without  food,  and  forgetting 
he  had  meant  to  let  it  out?  He  had  cried  himself  blind  in  the 
train,  thinking  it  would  starve  to  death.  Terence  was  going 
away  himself  the  next  day,  and  the  squirrel  would  have  neither 
food  nor  water.  Deny  ate  no  supper,  he  cried  himself  tired  in 
the  dormitory  that  first  night  at  school.  It  was'nt  homesick 
he  was;  but  all  the  time  he  was  seeing  the  squirrel  walking 
round  and  round  in  the  cage  he  and  Terence  had  made  for  him, 
looking  for  nuts,  for  water.  Derry  had  all  the  pangs  of  hunger 
in  his  bed  that  night,  and  the  bars,  too,  he  saw  around  him. 
They  had  always  meant  to  let  him  out  when  the  holidays 
came  to  an  end,  but  it  had  been  such  fun  feeding  him  with  the 
nuts.  .  .  . 

In  the  morning  came  Terence's  penciled  scrawl:  "I  let  the 
squirrel  out  when  I  got  back  from  the  station.  You  should 
have  seen  him  scamper.  We'll  catch  him  again  at  Easter." 

Derry,  on  the  Thames  Embankment,  between  three  and 
four  o'clock  on  that  dreary  morning,  staring  into  the  water, 
found  himself  wondering  if  he  had  persuaded  or  ...  But 
he  would  not  let  himself  wonder,  nor  stare  down  into  the  water, 
seeing  their  two  faces  reflected  there.  He  turned  away  feeling 
a  little  sick.  The  dawn  had  lightened,  and  now  the  dosed 
eyes  of  the  houses  began  to  open  sleepily,  slowly,  but  still  to 
open. 

He  was  a  man,  and  if  it  were  a  burden  he  had  to  bear,  he 
must  strengthen  his  shoulders,  that  was  all.  Involuntarily 
he  squared  them  as  he  turned  his  face  homeward.  There 
would  be  work  to  do,  and  a  place  to  fill,  and  in  a  new  land 
there  were  new  possibilities.  Already  the  horizon  was  brighten- 
ing. What  had  he  to  do  with  misgiving?  It  wasn't  himself 
he  had  to  be  thinking  of  at  all,  but  Rosaleen,  who  was  brave 

127 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

enough  to  go  with  him,  trusting  herself  to  him.  He  would 
make  a  life  for  her  out  there.  It  was  not  of  his  feelings  toward 
her  he  must  be  thinking.  And  now  he  had  no  feeling  toward 
her  at  all,  other  than  a  swelling  pity,  and  chivalry.  It  was 
going  to  be  quite  a  bright  morning.  Somewhere,  although  he 
could  not  see  it  for  the  houses,  the  red  sun  must  be  climbing 
the  horizon,  as  so  often  he  and  Terence  had  watched  it  rising 
through  the  mists  behind  the  trees  in  the  green  woods  of  Ran- 
more.  He  need  not  doubt  himself;  he  would  not  fail  in  loyalty 
to  Terence,  nor  to  the  girl  who  had  only  himself  upon  whom 
to  depend. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THERE  was  no  God-speed  from  Ranmore,  nor  from 
Dunstans,  to  start  them  on  their  journey .  The  announce- 
ment of  the  marriage  had  been  too  long  in  coming. 
It  seemed  that  Deny  had  behaved  badly,  callously,  to  say  the 
least  of  it,  and  without  regard  for  anyone  but  himself.  That 
was  what  Lady  Ranmore  thought,  and  it  was  that  supposition 
on  which  she  based  her  subsequent  actions.  The  Duchess 
was  slower  to  think  ill  of  the  boy  she  had  watched  grow  up, 
neither  callous  nor  unkind,  but  just  impulsive  and  simple,  a 
dog  at  Terence's  heels.  Terence  had  been  fond  of  him,  and 
thought  the  world  of  him.  Margaret  sent  no  word,  but  many 
a  time  she  regretted  the  omission.  Her  conscience  reproached 
her  that  she  had  not  been  kind  to  the  girl,  nor  to  Deny  either. 

Rosaleen  put  resolutely  away  from  her,  as  Derry  told  her 
that  she  must,  the  feeling  of  the  unreality  of  her  position.  He 
talked  about  it  often  during  their  last  two  days  in  London.  It 
was  husband  and  wife  they  must  be  before  the  world.  She 
had  a  genuine  humility  of  mind,  and  the  knowledge  of  how 
she  had  come  by  her  position  was  ever  present  with  her.  But 
she  set  herself  bravely  to  the  task  of  taking  her  place  by  his 
side.  It  would  have  been  easier  if  she  had  known  the  place  she 
had  in  his  heart,  but  there  was  a  wall  between  them.  It  was 
not  so  much  the  deficiencies  in  her  education,  for,  although 
it  would  not  have  qualified  her  for  an  entrance  to  Girton,  or 
enabled  her  to  pass  even  the  Junior  College  of  Preceptors' 
examination,  yet  the  instruction  that  had  been  given  her,  with 
the  qualities  it  brought  out,  proved  of  more  practical  utility 
than  would  the  undigested  cachets  of  information  administered 
by  the  English  High  Schools. 

It  was  not  in  education  primarily  that  Rosaleen  failed,  it  was 
in  the  knowledge  of  the  world.  Her  first  glimpse  into  the  second- 

129 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

rate  "smart"  world,  through  Ethel  Leon's  dinner-party  was  only 
of  value  in  so  far  as  it  directed  her  attention  to  things  which  had 
hitherto  found  no  place  with  her — spiritual  unessentials,  yet 
making  for  grace,  external  grace.  Berry's  wife  ought  to  have 
every  advantage,  the  poor  girl  thought.  She  realized  his  qualities 
while  undervaluing  her  own.  She  would  learn  to  bear  herself 
as  one  more  worthy  of  him;  she  made  up  her  mind  to  that. 

Berry's  passage  was  paid  by  the  Siamese  Government,  by 
whom  his  services  had  been  accepted  when  he  was  Berry  Malone. 
They  had  no  official  intimation  that  it  was  as  Lord  Ranmore 
he  was  coming  out  to  them. 

There  is  a  small  colony  of  Englishmen  employed  in  different 
capacities  by  the  Siamese  Government,  and  their  head-quarters 
are  at  Bangkok.  Berry  had  been  appointed  on  his  qualifications. 
To  celebrate  his  success  he  had  that  never-to-be-forgotten  week 
with  Terence  in  London.  As  events  turned  out,  it  was  fortunate 
that  the  Eastern  habit  of  moving  slowly  left  the  post  still  free 
when  he  made  his  hurried  decision  to  take  it  up.  It  carried  a 
salary  of  something  like  ^400  a  year,  a  bungalow,  and  all 
expenses.  Berry  had  signed  for  two  years.  He  felt  quite  rich 
with  his  secured  £500  a  year  from  Mossy  in  addition  to  this. 
He  had  taken  a  nice  cabin  for  Rosaleen  on  the  ss.  Moira.  He 
knew  they  were  going  to  make  a  success  of  their  project  from  the 
moment  they  entered  Marseilles,  and  stood  on  the  quay  in  a 
blaze  of  sunshine. 

"It's  a  good  omen  for  us,"  he  said;  "all  the  sunshine,  and  the 
beautiful  boat  she  is." 

Rosaleen's  spirits,  too,  seemed  to  rise  as  England  and  Ireland 
receded,  and  the  new,  strange  home  loomed  on  the  distant 
horizon. 

There  was  the  usual  crowd  of  travelers,  whose  destination  was 
Port  Said.  The  big  financier,  who  was  helping  us  to  tighten  our 
hold  on  Egypt,  was  there,  with  his  secretary  and  valet.  This 
big  financier,  by  the  way,  was  a  small  and  rather  irritable  person, 
apparently  more  interested  in  his  liver  than  in  any  affair  of  state. 
Calling  himself  an  Englishman,  he  spoke  its  language  with  a 
Teutonic  accent,  and  the  title  that  had  been  conferred  upon  him 

130 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

for  services  rendered  sat  strangely  on  his  lack  of  dignity  and 
childish  petulance  of  temper. 

There  were  married  couples  with  their  provincial  or  suburban 
narrowness  of  outlook,  incongruous  against  the  blue  breadth  of 
the  Mediterranean,  fussy  about  their  deck-chairs  and  cushions, 
full  of  talk  about  their  meals  and  their  neighbors,  interested 
chiefly  in  the  weather  and  the  boat's  daily  record  of  knots. 
There  were  several  unattached  officers,  a  clergyman  or  two,  and 
three  entire  parties  of  Americans,  more  or  less  typical,  with 
women-folk  whose  attractions  were  insistent.  Also  there  were 
Lord  and  Lady  Ranmore.  Under  the  influence  of  deck  games, 
concerts,  charades,  and  various  other  amusements,  there  grew 
up  a  strange  semi-intimacy,  or  camaraderie,  among  these  incon- 
gruous people. 

The  boat  sped  through  the  blue  waters,  the  wind  and  sea-spray 
held  the  sun  in  solution.  The  weather  grew  hotter  and  ever 
hotter.  The  passengers  seemed,  in  the  limitless  horizon  of  the 
sea-girt  days,  to  have  nothing  but  mutual  interests,  mutual 
pleasures;  they  were  like  a  huge  family  party,  with  trivial  pur- 
suits that  yet  sufficed  them.  But  the  undercurrent  of  the  pleasant 
days  was  an  ever-threatening  boredom,  the  evasion  of  which  was 
the  one  genuine  objective.  Deny  had,  perhaps,  more  than  the 
fear  of  boredom  to  evade,  and  it  was  he  who  became  the  head 
of  the  Sports  Committee,  animating  it  always  to  fresh  effort, 
trying  to  keep  the  ball  rolling.  Bigger  in  every  way  than  any 
of  the  men  on  board,  his  cheeriness  dominated  them.  Perhaps 
at  first  he  was  playing  a  part,  but  it  soon  ceased  to  be  that. 
There  was  nothing  morbid  about  Derry,  and  he  meant  to  fill 
his  days.  He  was  for  ever  varying  the  "how  many  knots  a  day 
sweepstake,"  and  devising  new  forms  of  competition  and  prizes. 
He  would  not  let  Sir  Alfred  Schloss's  moroseness  affect  him, 
and  he  assisted  in  initiating  the  Rev.  Dionysius  Parker  into  the 
mysteries  of  Chinese  poker,  and  Kentucky  loo.  He  had  first 
to  learn  them  both  himself,  but  he  was  never  backward  in  learning 
games. 

Rosaleen  thought  everything  he  did  was  wonderful.  She  tried 
at  first  to  follow  in  his  footsteps,  but  she  never  attained  even  a 

131 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

measure  of  success.  She  could  not  learn  the  cards,  the  deck 
games,  of  course,  were  out  of  the  question,  she  would  be  only  a 
spectator  at  charade  or  concert.  The  art  of  trivial  talk  was  at 
present  beyond  her,  silence  being  the  only  polished  weapon  in 
her  armory.  Around  her  instinctive  reticence  was  the  chain- 
armor  of  the  secret  she  had  to  guard.  She  could  not  talk  of  her 
travel  experiences,  for  from  Ranmore  to  London  was  all  she 
knew.  Of  the  past  she  could  not  speak,  nor  could  she  answer 
kindly,  intrusive  questions.  The  present  was  all  strange,  and 
the  future  unknown.  The  Americans  said  she  was  "stuck  up," 
but  Lord  Ranmore  was  "just  a  daisy."  In  the  ignorance  of 
their  self-sufficiency  they  attributed  to  pride  what  was  due  to 
humility.  In  the  end  the  majority  of  the  passengers  avoided 
her.  She  had  meant  to  learn  much  from  their  ease  of  manner, 
their  gift  of  light  talk,  but  she  soon  realized  she  could  only  learn 
in  watching.  Comedy  or  farce  was  their  drama,  tragedy 
hers. 

Perhaps  it  was  not  strange  that  in  Sir  Alfred  Schloss  she  found, 
after  Derry,  her  most  congenial  company.  The  multi-millionaire 
the  successful  financier  and  friend  of  kings,  was  as  much  alien 
as  she  from  the  frivolity  and  emptiness  of  that  daily  life.  If  he 
had  great  affairs  on  hand,  as  the  talk  would  have  it  that  buzzed 
about  him  on  board,  or  if,  as  he  said  himself,  he  was  voyaging 
for  his  health,  it  was  no  matter.  Withdrawing  into  himself  as 
she  into  herself,  they  found  companionship  when  their  chairs 
were  side  by  side.  One  whole  afternoon  he  talked  to  her  about 
the  vagaries  of  his  digestion,  twice  he  took  the  trouble  to  send 
his  man  for  a  larger  umbrella  for  her,  one  that  supported  itself 
behind  her  chair,  lined  with  green,  and  luxurious  with  fringe. 
Sir  Alfred  was  going  on  for  sixty  years  of  age,  a  widower,  and 
immune  from  women's  wiles,  as  many  knew.  But  Rosaleen  had 
no  wiles,  she  had  only  her  beauty  and  her  quietude,  and  either 
or  both  of  them  soothed  his  nerves. 

Rosaleen  never  found  herself  embarrassed  by  his  questions. 
The  curiosity  he  felt  about  anything  but  pounds,  shillings,  and 
pence  was  infinitesimal.  But  he  did  ask  her  about  Berry's 
appointment. 

132 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"I  am  surprised  he  should  have  taken  it,"  he  said.  "The 
Siamese  Government  is  notorious  in  its  treatment  of  English 
employees.  He  will  never  get  any  further  with  them."  And 
then  a  gleam  of  interest,  or  avarice,  came  into  his  little  bright 
eyes.  "But  of  course,  if  he  is  going  up  country,  he  may  have 
something  else  in  his  mind,  some  concession.  ..."  Sir 
Alfred  dreamed  of  concessions.  "He  has  influential  friends,  he 
could  get  any  capital  he  might  want?" 

"He  has  a  great  deal  of  money,"  Rosaleen  answered;  for 
indeed  Deny  had  told  her  of  the  £500,  and  that  seemed  a  great 
deal  of  money  to  her.  He  was  wasteful  with  it,  but  when  is  an 
Irishman  not  wasteful,  or  an  Irishwoman  either,  for  that  matter? 
Thrift  was  no  real  part  of  Rosaleen's  character,  but  the  only 
feeling  she  allowed  herself  for  Deny,  the  mothering  or  protecting 
instinct,  told  her  he  was  too  open-handed. 

Very  rich  men  have  their  only  real  human  intercourse  with 
other  rich  men,  people  who  do  not  ask  them  for  money  or  help. 
Sir  Alfred  would  have  avoided  a  richer  man  than  himself,  for 
he  would  have  felt  jealous,  or  resentful,  of  a  superior  ability  to 
amass  wealth.  But  Lord  Ranmore  could  not  be  that,  or  he 
would  have  heard  of  it.  Sir  Alfred  Schloss  extended  his  tolerance 
from  Derry's  wife  to  Deny.  By  the  time  they  arrived  at  Port 
Said  he  had  unbent  sufficiently  to  hope  they  would  meet  again. 
Derry  hoped  so,  too;  he  hoped  he  would  meet  everybody  again. 

The  moment  they  were  in  sight  of  land,  they  were  surrounded 
and  overwhelmed  with  the  insistent  turbaned  black  men,  offering 
their  wares.  Derry  immediately  began  buying  presents.  He 
bought  presents  for  the  Americans,  and  for  the  parson's  daughter, 
and  one  for  Rosaleen.  Rosaleen,  watching  the  novel  scene  with 
brooding  eyes,  felt  indeed  that  Ireland  was  far  away.  Ranmore, 
in  the  luxuriance  of  its  green  foliage  and  verdure,  was  a  dream 
from  which  she  was  but  slowly  awakening  to  this  glare  and  dazzle 
of  dust  and  sun.  And  it  was  through  a  nightmare  she  had  passed. 
Again  everything  seemed  unreal  to  her.  When  Derry  came  to 
her  with  his  offering,  it  seemed  more  unreal  still.  She  felt  this 
through  that  dream-like  feeling  in  which  her  consciousness  was 
suspended.  He  had  bought  her  a  silver  scarf.  He  told  her  it 

133 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

was  night  itself  with  its  silver  stars  she  would  look  like  when  she 
threw  it  over  her  head.  It  was  kind  of  him;  everything  he  did 
was  kind.  They  had  had  little  talk  together  during  the  journey, 
yet  each  had  been  supremely  conscious  of  the  other.  If  it  were 
a  duel  of  sex  in  which  they  were  engaged,  as  yet  they  were  only 
surveying  the  ground,  eyeing  each  other  from  the  distance, 
apprehensive. 

Between  the  banks  of  the  Suez  Canal  they  glided  past  the 
Arab  villages;  the  camels,  too,  were  dream-like  and  unreal 
against  the  deep  indigo  of  the  wonderful  nights.  The  search- 
light from  their  own  boat  made  deeper  the  shadowed  solitudes. 

Derry  was  always  there,  and  although  they  had  so  little  talk 
together,  she  often  felt  that  he  and  she  were  alone.  She  had 
nothing  in  common  with  the  people  who  got  up  gymkhanas,  and 
discussed  fancy-dress  balls  while  the  marvelous  sunsets  hung 
low  on  the  red  waters,  and  the  splendor  of  the  night  followed  on 
the  splendor  of  the  day.  Derry  mingled  with  the  other  passen- 
gers, talking  to  them,  playing  with  them,  but  surely  he  and  they 
had  nothing  in  common. 

That  fancy-dress  ball  seemed  to  Rosaleen  the  last  word  of 
strangeness.  Vulgarity  would  have  been  a  better  expression, 
but  it  was  not  a  word  in  her  vocabulary.  Many  of  the  same 
people  with  whom  they  had  started  from  Marseilles  were  travel- 
ing on  with  them  to  Ceylon.  By  now  she  had  grown  tired  of 
watching  them,  of  their  vapid  talk,  and  their  wearisome  egotism. 
She  had  meant  to  learn  from  them,  but  there  was  little  but  their 
clothes  that  she  found  worthy  of  imitation.  Rosaleen  had  the 
dress  instinct.  Perhaps,  when  she  remembered  that  dreadful 
dinner-party  at  the  Leons',  it  was  her  lack  of  suitable  clothes  she 
seemed  to  remember  most  vividly.  Here,  in  this  heat,  the 
muslins  and  cottons  Derry  had  bought  her  were  sufficiently 
appropriate,  and  passed  muster.  But  they  could  not  be  named 
in  the  same  day  as  the  delicate,  clinging  confections  from  Doucet 
and  Voisin  that  draped  the  grace  of  the  young  women  from 
New  York. 

On  the  night  of  the  fancy-dress  ball  she  took  infinite  pains  to 
do  credit  to  him.  She  adopted  the  idea  he  had  given  her,  and, 

134 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

with  black  dress  and  silver  draperies,  silver  stars  shining  in  the 
hair  she  let  down,  she  looked  indeed  like  the  spirit  of  beautiful 
night.  Her  hair  was  lustrous,  and  it  hung  far  below  her  waist, 
the  black  loose  folds  of  her  dress  clung  indefinitely  about  her 
softly  moving  feet,  and  to-night  her  eyes  shone;  it  was  as  if  a 
star  were  in  the  center  of  each  dark  iris.  There  was  no  one 
could  touch  her  for  beauty  or  strangeness. 

Little  as  she  cared  for  anyone's  opinion  but  Berry's,  although 
she  had  dressed  herself  for  him,  and  for  him  alone,  it  would  have 
given  her  confidence  in  herself,  and  proved  valuable  toward 
that  education  which  was  proceeding  so  slowly  and  imperceptibly, 
if  there  had  been  public  recognition  that  she  had  done  well. 
There  were  votes  and  prizes  for  the  best  costumes;  other  girls 
and  women  had  striven  for  distinction.  But  eyes  that  had 
not  wandered  from  the  bridge-table  when  the  moving  panorama 
of  Suez  and  the  Red  Sea  was  spread  with  wonderful  lure  before 
them,  eyes  that  had  been  dull  to  the  morning  glory  of  blue  sky, 
and  brilliant  sun,  to  the  evening  majesty  of  sapphire  and  gold, 
were  blind,  too,  to  the  rarity  of  the  human  picture  that  asked 
their  suffrage. 

Rosaleen  had  hardly  five  votes  to  her  name,  and  one  of  these 
was  Berry's.  The  prize  went  to  the  buxom  daughter  of  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Parker,  who  had  concocted  for  herself,  out  of  two 
tartan  rugs  and  a  sporeen,  a  Scottish  effect  that  brought  down  the 
house.  She  danced  a  reel,  too,  and  Berry  with  her.  He  must 
not  be  always  looking  at  Rosaleen.  All  the  time,  he  was  living 
to  his  plan,  his  plan  not  to  embarrass  her  by  attentions  too  per- 
sonal. He  still  read  grief  in  her  eyes,  respected  it  and  looked 
away.  For  in  truth  he  could  hardly  bear  to  see  it. 

Rosaleen  noted  that  he  did  not  look  at  her,  although  she  had 
dressed  to  please  him.  She  listened  to  his  gay  talk,  and  watched 
his  gayer  dancing  of  the  reel.  She  shed  a  few  absurd  tears 
when  she  sought  her  cabin  that  night — absurd,  she  thought, 
because  what  concern  had  she,  in  her  shame  and  sorrow,  with 
fancy-dress  balls  and  the  like?  If  her  heart  was  heavy  it  was 
surely  from  other  causes.  But  Berry  had  danced  the  reel  with 
the  rosy-cheeked  girl  in  the  tartan  get-up,  and  'twas  he  who 

135 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

had  read  out  the  prize-winners,  and  seen  her  name  at  the 
bottom. 

On  Christmas  Day  they  reached  Colombo,  and  quitted  the 
Moira  for  good.  Rosaleen's  "foolishness"  had  taken  her  to  the 
point  when  she  was  glad  to  know  that  the  Rev.  Dionysius  and 
his  family  were  going  no  further. 

Derry  and  she  and  their  luggage  were  conveyed  from  the  boat 
to  the  Galle  Face  Hotel.  Now  from  the  window  the  lovely 
view  of  the  bay  lay  before  them,  the  wonderful  blue  waves, 
lapping  with  luxurious  slow  regularity  the  white  beach,  accom- 
panied their  voices  with  monotonous  music.  The  parson  and 
his  wife  and  daughter  had  come  to  the  hotel  with  them.  There 
had  been  laughter  and  chaff  on  the  way  and  Rosaleen's  heart 
had  sunk  at  the  warmth  of  Derry's  hopes  that  they  would  meet 
again,  and  the  promise  that  the  afternoon  should  be  spent  in 
looking  for  parting  presents.  It  was  in  the  essence  of  him  to  be 
gregarious  and  readily  on  good  terms,  to  make  friends  easily. 
It  was  just  a  surface  lure  of  manner,  this  friendliness  of  Derry, 
but  to  Rosaleen  it  was  a  new  pain  she  had  to  bear  that  day. 
The  parson's  daughter  was  high-spirited,  like  Derry  himself, 
and  her  boisterous  mood  and  merriment  took  impetus  from 
Rosaleen's  pallor  and  watching.  There  are  some  feminine 
natures  that  enjoy  their  conquests  over  man  only  if  they  have 
another  woman  for  spectator.  Bridget  Parker  was  one  of  them. 
She  thought  she  had  made  a  conquest  of  Lord  Ranmore,  and 
to  flirt  boisterously  with  him  under  his  wife's  eyes  during  that 
drive  to  the  hotel  gave  zest  to  the  familiarities  she  permitted 
herself.  It  was  she  who  proposed  they  should  all  lunch  together 
— a  farewell  lunch.  Rosaleen  excused  herself,  but  up  here,  in 
her  own  room,  a  little  afraid  lest  Derry  should  be  resentful  of 
her  withdrawal,  she  said: 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  don't  lunch  with  you?  I'm  thinking  it's 
resting  I'd  better  be.  It's  strange  to  see  the  land  stand  still." 

"It's  not  luncheon  you  are  to  call  it  here,  it's  'tiffin,'  and  I'll 
be  getting  an  appetite  for  myself  to  do  justice  to  it." 

They  were  to  join  the  Delhi  that  afternoon.  It  seemed  to 
Rosaleen  that  Derry,  kind  as  he  was  to  her,  was  nevertheless 

136 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

anxious  to  get  away.  His  eyes  were  bold  on  Bridget  Parker's 
while  on  her  they  hardly  ever  rested. 

"There's  a  swimming-bath  beyond,  and  I'll  just  indulge 
myself.  Is  there  anything  I  can  get  for  you  before  I  go?" 

Rosaleen  was  hurried  in  her  assurance  that  she  had  all  she 
needed.  When  he  had  gone,  her  eyes  wandered  over  the  bay. 
After  the  moving  panorama  of  the  last  weeks,  the  stillness  and 
restfulness  had  a  curious  effect.  If  only  her  thoughts  could 
have  rested  like  her  eyes!  But  they  followed  Deny,  and  the 
buoyant  girl  with  whom  he  would  lunch  and  shop.  It  was  not 
jealousy  she  felt.  Why  should  she  be  jealous  of  him?  She 
told  herself  this  new  pain  in  her  heart  was  sorrow  for  him.  For 
she  was  not  only  a  burden,  she  was  standing  between  him  and 
happiness.  Not  that  Bridget  Parker  was  worthy  of  him.  She 
had  danced  and  talked  and  flirted  with  other  men  all  through  the 
voyage,  a  bold  piece  of  goods. 

When  Derry  came  back  to  the  hotel  to  fetch  Rosaleen  for 
the  Delhi,  he  was  full  of  enthusiasm  about  Colombo.  She 
heard  that  he  had  had  a  merry  time. 

"You  never  saw  such  beautiful  buildings.  There's  the 
post  office  now,  with  a  fellow — a  scribe  they  call  him — sitting 
outside  all  day  long  in  the  sun  to  write  letters  for  people.  Now, 
that's  an  idea  I'd  like  to  take  home  with  me." 

"  'Tis  few  letters  we  have  to  write." 

"I'm  not  thinking  of  myself;  but  you  should  hear  the  number 
of  people  the  Parkers  have  to  write  to,  the  post  cards  they 
have  to  be  sending.  .  .  .  And  you  should  see  the  Govern- 
ment house,  Rosaleen,  just  long  and  low,  and  painted  the  green 
of  the  Ranmore  hazel.  There  are  cocoanut  palms,  and  big 
cocoanuts  growing  on  them.  And  the  tall  banana  trees,  with 
the  clustered,  hanging  branches  of  fruit.  ..." 

But  Rosaleen  could  have  seen  them  all,  she  would  have 
gladly  gone  with  him  had  he  pressed  it.  It  wasn't  for  lying 
down  she  had  withdrawn  from  the  party. 

The  Delhi  was  a  smaller  and  inferior  boat  to  the  Moira, 
but  it  seemed  to  Rosaleen  there  were  almost  the  same  people 
on  board;  certainly  they  were  people  with  the  same  ideas 

137 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

of  amusement.  And  Deny  was  at  home  with  them  at 
once. 

They  had  escaped  from  the  heat;  now  a  steady  breeze  blew 
by  day,  and  the  nights  were  cool.  Deck  quoits  were  abandoned, 
and  the  saloon  was  full  of  card-players.  Bridge  was  the  order 
of  the  day,  but  the  sweepstakes  on  the  run  continued. 

In  seven  days  they  reached  Singapore.  There  was  a  bridge 
"drive"  or  tournament  in  progress,  and  who  would  leave  the 
excitement  of  the  game  for  such  a  sight  as  the  red  cliffs  covered 
with  verdure,  sloping  down  almost  to  the  water's  edge?  There 
were  not  half  a  dozen"  passengers  on  deck  when  they 
steamed  in. 

"I'm  told  Singapore  harbor  is  like  Clieveden  Woods,"  one 
said  carelessly. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  believe  it  is,  but  I  live  at  Maidenhead,  so  it  is 
no  treat  to  me  to  look  at  Clieveden.  Hearts  are  trumps — 
please  get  on  with  the  game,  we'll  be  in  in  an  hour,  and  if  we 
are  not  finished,  I  don't  know  what  they'll  do  about  the  prize. 
It  will  be  simply  awful!" 

The  game  never  was  finished,  by  the  way,  for  at  Singapore 
they  had  to  disembark.  What  eventually  became  of  the  prize 
is  a  problem  that  to  this  day  has  not  been  solved. 

Deny  had  a  great  deal  to  attend  to  with  luggage  and  the 
like;  perhaps  that  was  one  of  the  reasons  that  the  prize  problem 
was  not  cleared  up.  Amid  the  din  of  the  disembarkation 
two  shrill  female  voices  pursued  the  subject.  There  was  not 
much  time  to  spare  for  any  of  them.  The  P.  and  O.  harbor 
was  right  on  the  other  side  of  the  town,  and  everything  in  the 
boat  had  to  be  transhipped.  Deny  and  Rosaleen  were  con- 
veyed in  gharries  to  the  hotel  recommended  to  them,  the  Raffles 
Hotel.  Long  before  they  reached  it  the  rain  was  coming  down 
in  sheets.  Deny  was  concerned  for  Rosaleen,  and  wanted 
her  to  have  his  coat  as  well  as  her  own.  Bad  as  the  weather 
was,  and  although  there  was  no  glory  of  bay,  or  public  build- 
ings, Rosaleen  enjoyed  her  few  hours'  sojourn  in  Singapore 
a  great  deal  better  than  the  same  time  in  Colombo.  Deny 
insisted  on  her  drinking  wine  to  "keep  the  cold  out."  He  had 

138 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

got  over  his  own  shyness  with  her  for  the  moment,  and  used 
an  authoritative,  half  brotherly,  wholly  protecting,  manner 
that  seemed  just  perfection  to  her.  She  ate  to  please  herself, 
and  drank  to  please  him,  and  it  was  as  if  to  a  picnic  they  went 
now,  each  in  the  covered  gharry  that  waited  for  them  in  the 
strange  Chinese  street. 

Arrived  at  the  pier,  Deny  could  not  find  his  luggage  any- 
where. Several  people  had  seen  it  in  the  bullock  cart,  waiting 
to  be  unloaded;  now  it  had  disappeared. 

Derry  was  seriously  considering  whether  it  would  be  as  well 
to  delay  their  journey  when  it  was  discovered  in  the  boat,  quite 
safe  and  awaiting  them. 

Rosaleen  wanted  no  delay.  Her  mind's  eye  was  fixed  now 
on  Bangkok,  and  the  bungalow  they  would  dwell  in  together, 
the  life  of  work  she  would  share  with  Derry,  lightening  it, 
perhaps,  for  him.  She  thought  her  heart  had  forgotten  to 
sing,  but  it  was  breaking  into  song  as  she  stood  on  the  pier 
looking  at  the  boat,  so  small  after  the  others,  that  would  take 
them  to  what  now  she  had  begun  to  call  home. 

She  was  destined  to  be  disappointed;  for  some  reason  or 
another,  it  was  suddenly  announced  that  there  would  be  a  delay, 
and  that  the  boat  would  not  start  until  the  next  morning. 

Then  it  was  that  Deny 's  popularity  became  manifest.  There 
had  traveled  with  them  from  Colombo  an  elderly  merchant 
and  his  wife,  of  the  best  type  of  English  Colonial  people,  unaf- 
fected and  homely.  Rosaleen  had  had  but  little  talk  with 
Mrs.  Darrell,  and  none  at  all  with  her  husband,  but  Derry 
knew  them  both  well.  They  would  not  hear  of  the  Ranmores 
going  back  to  the  hotel,  they  must  come  home  with  them. 

Rosaleen  hesitated  and  looked  at  Derry,  who  never  hesitated 
at  all. 

"Well,  now  that's  kind  of  you,  that's  very  kind,  and  my 
wife  and  I  will  be  delighted.  I'll  just  see  that  everything  is 
all  right  aboard,  and  you'll  give  me  the  direction,  and  we'll 
take  dinner  with  you  with  all  the  pleasure  in  the  world." 

Rosaleen  got  through  that  dinner  well  enough.  There  were 
just  the  four  of  them,  in  their  traveling  clothes,  and  it  was  really 

139 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

without  any  ceremony.  Mrs.  Darrell  was  homely,  motherly, 
although  she  had  no  children  of  her  own.  She  petted  Rosaleen 
and  made  much  of  her,  and  the  girl  thawed  under  this  treatment. 
All  her  secret  could  not  be  kept.  If  Mrs.  Darrell  penetrated  it, 
and  said  a  kindly  word,  it  seemed  now,  in  this  beautiful  new 
world,  that  it  was  a  word  which  did  not  hurt. 

"It  will  be  all  right  for  you  at  Bangkok,  my  dear,"  she  said. 
"I'll  write  to  my  friend,  Mrs.  Sydney  Biddle,  about  you.  She 
has  a  beautiful  home  there,  and  it's  open  house  with  her  always. 
And  there  is  an  English  doctor,  I  know." 

Deny  said,  easily,  during  that  friendly  dinner: 

"Don't  you  think  my  wife  is  very  brave  to  come  all  this  way 
with  me?  She  has  proved  a  famous  traveler,  neither  sick  nor 
sorry." 

"I'm  sure  you've  got  a  very  good  wife,"  Mr.  Darrell  answered, 
comfortably.  But  Mrs.  Darrell  had  noted  the  girl's  quick 
blush,  and  found  the  opportunity  for  that  kind  and  reassuring 
word. 

Rosaleen  thought  it  had  been  wonderful  of  Deny  to  talk  about 
their  strange  relations  in  this  easy  way.  For  an  hour  before  they 
started,  they  sat  on  the  veranda  overlooking  the  great  still 
mystery  of  the  lake,  and  that  heart  of  hers  which  had  begun 
to  sing  was  full  of  deep,  unfathomable  thanksgiving.  She  knew 
to  whom  she  owed  her  succor.  Hope  and  promise  thrilled  in 
the  warm  air.  The  Chinaman  that  came  to  announce  that  the 
carriage  was  waiting  to  take  them  to  the  harbor  swung  a  lantern 
in  his  hand,  and  on  the  waters  of  the  lake  the  bright  colors 
made  bright  larger  reflections.  The  weather  had  cleared,  and 
for  five  miles,  under  an  ultramarine  sky,  where  little  light 
floating  clouds  now  hid,  and  now  revealed,  the  myriads  of  stars, 
she  and  Deny  drove  together.  They  seemed  so  near  to  each 
other,  so  much  nearer  than  they  had  been  during  all  this  long 
voyage.  The  very  silence  that  was  between  them  this  night 
held  an  intimacy  that  all  their  other  silences  had  lacked. 

When  Derry's  hand  sought  hers  in  the  carriage  and  he  said, 
"You  were  not  minding  what  I  said  at  dinner?"  she  answered 
simply: 

140 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"It's  kind  you've  been  from  first  to  last." 

"And  it's  brave  you've  been,"  he  answered.  There  was  no 
reason  their  hands  should  not  lay  locked  in  this  friendly  way. 
The  air  was  so  soft,  the  sky  so  darkly  blue  and  beneficent  about 
them,  that  they  forgot  everything  but  that  they  were  young  and 
alone.  If  one  called  the  feeling  that  was  between  them  "grati- 
tude," and  the  other  named  it  "pity,"  the  little  god  who  knew 
the  truth  could  afford  to  laugh  and  wait;  his  arrows  were  planted 
surely.  They  might  hurt  where  they  stuck,  but  never,  never 
would  the  wound  they  made  be  healed  by  such  misnaming. 

The  boat,  that  seemed  so  tiny  after  the  P.  and  O.  steamers 
puffed  its  uncomfortable  way  along  the  Gulf  of  Siam.  Rosaleen 
lay  on  a  sail-cloth  deck-chair,  and  now  the  singing  in  her  heart 
had  reached  her  eyes,  and  they  sang,  too,  of  hope.  The  life 
before  them  was  coming  very  near;  two  days  more,  one  day 
more,  and  they  would  be  at  Bangkok. 


10 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THEY  had  made  up  their  minds  not  to  be  disappointed 
whatever  might  await  them  at  Bangkok.  They  talked 
it  over  during  these  last  two  days,  even  as  they  had 
talked  it  over  in  London,  before  that  long  pilgrimage  began, 
with  the  mutual  shyness.  They  assured  each  other  not  once, 
but  many  times,  that  they  were  not  afraid  of  "roughing  it," 
that  the  unknown  presented  no  terrors  to  them. 

Derry  had  understood  that  the  Director  of  the  Siamese  Survey 
Department,  in  whose  service  he  had  entered,  would  meet  him 
at  Bangkok.  But  there  was  no  one  to  meet  them,  and  their 
first  night  in  Bangkok  was  passed  at  an  hotel.  Afterward  it 
transpired  that  a  letter  sent  to  them  at  Singapore  had  missed 
them.  It  was  all  made  right  in  the  morning,  when  Derry  went 
to  the  office  and  announced  to  the  phlegmatic  official  the  fact  of 
his  identity  with  Derry  Malone. 

The  bungalow  allocated  to  him  was  fully  furnished;  his 
predecessor  had  evidently  luxurious  tastes.  The  beds  were 
English,  and  there  was  enough  glass  and  china,  considerably 
damaged,  as  it  was.  Before  they  had  time  to  go  through  the 
four  rooms  and  big  veranda  of  which  the  residence  consisted, 
it  seemed  to  Rosaleen  that  the  neighbors  began  to  call.  Cer- 
tainly they  were  met  with  kindness — or  was  it  curiosity  ? — from 
the  whole  of  the  English  colony.  It  is  not  usual  for  a  young 
nobleman,  even  if  he  be  of  the  Irish  peerage,  to  take  a  subordinate 
position  in  the  Survey  Office  of  Siam.  Some  were  frankly 
astonished,  and  interrogated  him  as  to  his  motive;  some  were 
suspiciously  surprised,  and  put  the  worst  possible  construction 
upon  an  exile  that  must  have  been  necessitated  by  debt  or 
difficulty  at  home.  Others,  again,  were  disingenuously  not 
surprised,  and  more  subtly  interrogative.  This  was  the  way 

142 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

that  impressed  Rosaleen  as  being  the  most  natural.  That  was 
the  true  Celtic  attitude  of  mind  to  take  up  toward  the  unknown. 
The  quality  in  Deny  to  which  she  found  it  most  difficult  to 
accustom  herself  was  his  frankness.  Deny  told  everyone  his 
inheritance  had  come  to  him  as  a  surprise,  that  there  seemed 
great  difficulty  in  getting  matters  settled,  and,  as  he  had  to  live 
meanwhile,  he  thought  he  had  better  do  so  by  the  only  profession 
he  had  learned.  And  he  said  "my  wife  and  I"  whenever  he 
talked  of  his  affairs.  Over  and  over  again  Rosaleen  heard  him, 
but  never  without  a  quickening  heart-beat. 

At  the  English  Club  they  said  Lord  Ranmore  was  a  white 
man;  but  Lady  Ranmore  won  their  suffrages  less  easily.  She 
wanted  neither  to  patronize  nor  to  be  patronized,  what  she  really 
wanted  was  to  be  left  alone,  to  work  out  her  daily  life 
so  that  it  would  enable  her  to  be  of  service  to  the  man 
who  had  given  her  a  home.  She  fell  easily  into  the  habits 
of  the  place,  and  her  domestic  qualities  developed  rapidly. 
She  made  war  against  ants  and  cobwebs,  learned  to  leave 
the  cook  to  his  own  devices,  and  express  no  surprise  when 
her  little  brown  maid  was  courted  by  an  aspirant,  who 
sat  on  his  haunches  and  watched  her  without  speaking,  at 
all  hours  of  the  day  and  night.  The  price  of  food-stuffs 
appalled  her,  and  all  the  ways  of  the  colored  servants  were 
strange  at  first.  It  irked  her  that  if  she  went  shopping,  for 
instance,  she  should  be  followed  by  an  Indian  watchman  with 
a  big  stick;  but  she  submitted  to  it,  as  it  was  Derry's  wish,  and 
apparently  not  unusual.  Deny  bought  a  dog-cart  and  a  pony. 
In  less  than  a  week  the  syce  ran  away  without  notice,  but  before 
she  had  time  to  wonder  who  would  groom  the  pony,  a  brother  of 
the  Indian  watchman  appeared,  and  announced  that  he  was 
their  new  syce.  He  was  an  inch  or  two  taller  than  the  other, 
and  not  insignificant  in  weight,  dressed  all  in  white,  even  to  the 
turban;  a  most  princely  figure.  Rosaleen  pitied  the  pony 
should  he  attempt  to  drive.  But  Deny  said  it  was  all  right. 
Deny  had  a  way  of  saying  things  were  all  right,  and  thinking 
it,  too. 

But  Deny  was  restless.  The  happiness  Rosaleen  was  getting 

143 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

out  of  their  lives  together,  the  happiness  that  was  independent 
of  mosquitoes  and  insect  life  generally,  and  visitors,  and  the 
inevitable  occasional  throbs  of  homesickness,  was  her  portion 
alone. 

These  days  saw  Rosaleen  looking  very  beautiful.  Happiness 
irradiated  the  whiteness  of  her  skin  with  some  inner  glow  of 
transparency,  and  always  now  a  star  shone  in  the  center  of 
each  dark  iris.  Deny  saw  her  early  in  the  morning  when 
she  rose  at  six  o'clock  to  get  him  coffee  before  he  went 
for  his  daily  exercise  at  the  squash  racquet-court.  He 
saw  her  in  the  evening,  when,  after  his  day's  work  was  done, 
she  would  come  out  with  him  on  the  veranda  and  sit  con- 
tentedly by  his  side,  while  he  smoked  and  tried  to 
speak  only  of  the  lessons  he  was  taking  in  Siamese,  of  the  work 
he  had  to  do  at  the  office,  of  the  Sports  Club,  and  the  daily 
routine. 

But  he  was  young  and  hot-blooded,  and  the  girl  by  his  side  was 
the  girl  that  he  had  pictured  there  when  first  his  eyes  had  turned 
toward  the  East.  Here  she  was,  but  not  for  him.  There  were 
fruit  and  flower  in  his  home,  but  he  must  neither  taste  nor  enjoy. 
His  eyes  might  linger,  and  the  desire  to  taste,  to  gather,  might 
come  now  and  again  upon  him  suddenly,  a  thrill  of  longing  that 
was  pain,  but  fruit  and  flower  were  dedicate  to  the  dead,  and 
even  the  desire  made  him  feel  like  a  thief,  made  him  flush,  and 
look  away,  and  be  ashamed. 

Rosaleen  never  guessed  what  lay  beneath  his  restlessness. 

Derry  played  more,  worked  more,  drove  and  rode  and  talked, 
more  than  all  the  other  Europeans  in  that  little  colony.  Presently 
it  was  whispered  that  he  could  also  drink  more.  That  was  heredi- 
tary in  the  Ranmores,  but  he  tried  to  keep  it  in  check.  Yet  he 
thirsted,  and  always  within  his  reach  were  the  grapes  he  must  not 
pluck;  day  and  night  they  hung  in  luscious  clusters  temptingly 
before  him. 

Sydney  Biddle,  who  was  head  of  the  department  for  which 
Derry  worked,  heard  of  his  visit  to  the  "Tingle-Tangle."  He 
had  heard  of  many  visits,  and  some  lingering,  at  the  United  Club, 
but  for  an  Englishman  to  visit  the  "Tingle-Tangle"  was  going 

144 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

a  little  beyond  the  limits  that  married  men  in  Bangkok  were  in 
the  habit  of  openly  allowing  themselves. 

Sydney  spoke  about  it  to  his  wife,  it  was  a  habit  of  Sydney's 
to  refer  his  troubles  there.  And  this  was  quite  a  trouble,  for 
Sydney  Biddle  took  himself  and  his  position  seriously.  He 
liked  his  energetic  young  subordinate,  and  his  feeling  of  responsi- 
bility toward  him  could  not  let  him  ignore  the  matter  when  it 
was  brought  under  his  notice. 

Sydney  Biddle's  wife  was  the  daughter  of  the  leading  English 
merchant  in  Siam.  She  was  a  woman  no  longer  young,  but 
gifted  with  extraordinary  energy.  A  great  deal  of  it  had  been 
expended,  by  the  way,  in  pushing  Sydney's  interest;  but  there 
was  enough  left  to  manage  all  the  affairs  of  European  Bangkok, 
to  dress  and  doctor  its  women  and  babies,  arrange  its  water- 
picnics  and  visits  to  the  native  festivities,  settle  its  tennis  and 
bridge  parties,  and  pair  off  its  unmarried  couples.  The  Biddies 
had  no  children,  and  they  had  been  in  Bangkok  for  many  years; 
they  looked  upon  themselves  as  the  mother  and  father  of  the 
colony.  Rosaleen's  lack  of  response  to  many  a  proffered 
kindness  now  rose  up  in  Emma's  mind. 

"Of  course  we  only  see  the  surface  of  their  married  life. 
Perhaps  she  is  reticent  because  she  has  something  to  conceal. 
We  don't  know  much  about  them,  only  what  he  has  told  us 
himself.  He  came  into  his  title  very  unexpectedly,  and  there 
was  no  inheritance  to  go  with  it  apparently.  We  don't  even 
know  how  long  they  have  been  married.  But  it  seems  a  strange 
time  for  him  to  choose  to  go  to  that  place." 

"Of  course,  he  may  have  only  gone  because  it  was  a  novelty, 
because  he  wanted  to  see  what  it  was  like." 

"I  know."  Neither  Sydney  Biddle  nor  his  wife  were  likely 
to  put  the  worst  construction  on  any  action.  "But  I  really 
must  make  another  effort  to  get  on  better  terms  with  her.  I 
have  asked  them  to  dinner  twice,  but  once  they  refused  with- 
out any  valid  reason,  and  the  other  time,  as  you  know,  he 
came  alone.  He  does  his  work  well,  doesn't  he?" 

"  Better  than  well.  And  he  is  learning  the  language  incredibly 
quickly.  There  is  one  thing  about  Irishmen,  if  you  get  clever 

145 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

ones  they  are  cleverer  than  all  their  Saxon  brothers  put  together. 
I  don't  believe  there  is  anything  Ranmore  set  his  hand  to  that 
he  wouldn't  make  a  success  of  it.  It's  a  pity  if  a  taste  for  ... 
for  anything  like  dissipation  should  get  hold  of  him.  He 
carries  his  wine  well,  but  it  seems  to  me  he  tests  his  capacity, 
occasionally,  to  its  extreme  limit.  I'm  bothered  about  the 
fellow,  that's  the  fact.  The  'Tingle-Tangle!'  " 

The  expression  on  Sydney's  fair,  sunburned  face  was  as  if 
he  had  swallowed  something  exceedingly  nasty,  and  Emma's 
expression,  as  always,  reflected  his. 

"We  must  see  what  is  to  be  done,"  she  said. 

The  immediate  upshot  of  that  conversation  was  renewed 
kindnesses  from  the  Biddies  to  the  young  couple  under  dis- 
cussion, kindnesses  that  Deny  accepted  eagerly,  and  that 
even  Rosaleen  found  it  impossible  to  parry. 

"If  they  are  not  agreeing  very  well,  they  ought  not  to  be 
left  too  much  to  themselves.  There  are  always  difficulties 
in  the  first  year." 

Emma  thought  that  Deny  would  not  be  so  much  at  the 
United  Club,  or  the  Sports  Club,  and  would  certainly  go  never 
at  all  to  the  "Tingle-Tangle,"  if  he  and  Rosaleen  had  been 
in  accord.  And  it  was  easy  to  find  color  for  the  conjecture. 
They  were  not  seen  much  together,  their  manner  toward  each 
other  lacked  something,  or  held  something;  it  was  difficult 
to  say  what  it  was,  but  certainly  it  was  different  from  that 
of  other  young  wives  and  husbands  under  similar  circumstances. 
The  "circumstances,"  to  experienced  feminine  eyes,  were  not 
difficult  to  discern.  They  might  have  their  differences  of 
opinion.  Lord  Ranmore  was  open-handed,  open-hearted, 
talkative.  Lady  Ranmore  seemed  cold,  self-contained,  silent. 
Perhaps  he  had  chosen  badly,  but  if  so  he  should  make  the 
best  of  it — not  his  way  of  making  the  best  of  it,  which  led  to 
clubs,  and  too  many  drinks,  and  the  horrid  possibilities  of  the 
native  tea-rooms — but  Emma's  way,  which  she  proceeded 
to  develop. 

Rosaleen  was  uprooted  forcibly  from  her  domesticity.  Good 
Mrs.  Biddle  discovered  that  the  Ranmores  were  seeing  nothing 

146 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

of  the  country.  She  and  her  husband,  with  the  best  intentions 
in  the  world,  broke  up  that  home-life  that  was  giving  Rosaleen 
so  much  quiet  happiness,  and  Deny  so  much  unrest.  First, 
Sydney  found  urgent  work  for  Lord  Ranmore  which  made 
it  essential  he  should  pass  a  week  at  the  Survey  Office,  Sapatum. 
It  was  a  palace  that  had  been  built  for  a  Siamese  prince,  com- 
fortless to  a  degree,  and  boasting  only  one  staircase,  a  spiral 
one  of  iron;  it  was  impossible  to  use  it  without  passing  and 
repassing  the  native  servants  going  up  and  down. 

"He'll  go  back  to  his  home  with  so  much  more  satisfaction 
in  it,"  Emma  explained,  when  she  suggested  the  arrangement. 
And,  indeed,  both  Deny  and  Rosaleen  were  glad  when  the 
week  was  over.  In  a  way — a  way  far  from  the  one  the  Biddies 
saw — it  had  not  been  a  bad  move  for  Deny,  the  puny  physical 
discomforts  had  kept  his  mind  on  the  task  of  lessening  hers; 
he  was  full  of  expedient,  and  had  little  time  for  dreaming  and 
growing  uneasy  in  his  dreams,  and  full  of  self-reproach. 

Then,  there  were  the  three  days'  festivities  for  the  King's 
birthday.  Nothing  would  satisfy  the  Biddies  but  that  the 
Ranmores  should  give  up  the  bungalow,  and  stay  with  them 
for  the  whole  time.  No  one  in  Bangkok  lived  in  such  luxury 
as  the  Biddies.  Emma  Biddle  had  a  French  maid,  and  a 
Chinese  cook,  who  was  noted  throughout  the  whole  place. 
Deny  frankly  enjoyed  the  luxuries,  the  fine  baths,  the  carriage 
that  took  him  to  and  from  office  to  club  and  home  again.  He 
was  glad  Rosaleen  should  be  freed  from  her  domestic  work, 
and  should  only  tiffin  and  sleep,  drive  out,  and  be  generally 
cared  for.  He  was  genuinely  grateful  to  Emma;  he  had  no 
idea  that  it  was  his  own  conduct  to  Rosaleen  that  had  been 
under  suspicion.  He  was  glad  not  to  be  living  that  strained 
life  alone  with  her  in  the  bungalow.  And  he  showed  this  only 
too  clearly  to  the  Biddies,  who,  finding  him  both  sober  and 
domestic,  already  began  to  think  the  fault,  if  fault  there  was, 
must  be  Rosaleen's. 

They  went  up  the  river  for  a  wonderful  picnic.  The  destina- 
tion was  one  of  the  largest  temples  in  Bangkok,  but  the  strange 
river  craft,  the  floating  houses,  the  panoramic  variety,  interested 

147 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

them  more  than  the  temple.  The  scenes  through  which  they 
floated  that  evening  on  their  way  home,  under  the  soft  glow 
of  what,  in  England,  one  would  call  a  harvest  moon,  were  a 
curious  m'xture  of  civilization  and  savagery.  The  moon 
hung,  somewhat  yellow,  like  a  burnt-out  sun,  low  above  the 
waters.  There  was  light  above  and  behind  and  below  it, 
light  paler  than  the  moon  itself,  more  transparent,  a  cloud 
mountain  on  which  it  could  float,  and  this  cloud-mountain, 
and  not  the  moon,  was  reflected  on  the  dark  bosom  of  the 
still  waters. 

The  Siamese  fleet,  eight  vessels  all  told,  outlined  with  small 
electric  lamps,  made  a  brave  show.  To-morrow  the  King 
would  sally  forth  at  the  head  of  a  grand  river  procession,  bear- 
ing his  gifts  to  the  priests.  To-night  all  was  preparation  in 
the  native  boats.  One  saw  the  busy  little  brown  men,  with 
their  women  and  children,  hanging  paper-lamps,  cutting  tinsel, 
and  making  chains  and  flowers.  Weirdly  the  lights  of  moon 
and  burning  torches,  the  electric  lamps  from  the  fleet,  and  the 
paper  ones  from  the  junks,  mingled  on  the  waters. 

"I  really  don't  think  there  is  anything  amiss  between  them," 
was  Emma's  comment  to  her  husband  that  night,  when  they 
got  home.  "Did  you  see  how  anxious  he  was  that  she  should 
see  all  there  was  to  be  seen?  He  borrowed  a  shawl  from  me 
for  her,  and  put  it  over  her  shoulders.  I'm  sure  even  you 
couldn't  be  more  attentive." 

But  there  were  differences  between  the  domestic  life  the 
Ranmores  led,  and  that  to  which  the  Bangkok  residents  were 
accustomed.  And  it  is  difficult  to  keep  a  secret  in  such  a 
place.  Either  the  native  servants  talk,  or  the  ubiquitous 
washerwoman.  Anyway,  and  without  any  undue  prying 
of  theirs  into  the  affairs  of  their  neighbors,  the  Biddies  were 
still  conscious  that  the  Ranmores  did  not  live  as  other  young 
married  couples. 

It  was  Emma's  scheme  that  Deny  should  be  sent  "up 
country."  The  week  at  Sapatum  had  certainly  not  been  with- 
out its  effect.  It  is  difficult  to  know  how  she  arrived  at  this 
conclusion,  but  there  it  was,  fully  established.  Back  in  the 

148 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

bungalow,  Derry's  convivial  tastes  again  gave  food  for  gossip, 
and  it  was  Mrs.  Biddle's  idea  that  her  husband  should  try 
him  with  the  "simple  life." 

"It  will  cut  him  off  from  it  all  before  it  goes  too  far."  She 
was  not  explicit  as  to  what  she  meant  by  "all."  But  then, 
the  significance  lay  in  the  ellipsis.  Deny,  notwithstanding 
his  spirits,  appeared  to  neither  of  them  as  the  happy  married 
man.  They  did  not  stay  to  trace  this  feeling  about  him  to 
its  source.  The  domestic  arrangements  at  the  Bungalow, 
or  the  incident  of  the  visit  to  the  "Tingle-Tangle,"  or  perhaps 
the  restlessness,  helped  the  diagnosis. 

"Send  him  to  Petchaburi,"  was  Emma's  decision.  "He 
speaks  quite  enough  Siamese  already  to  be  able  to  do  the  work. 
And  she  will  pine  for  him,  and  perhaps  be  warmer  when  they 
do  meet.  She  hasn't  his  gaiety  of  temperament,  and  the  first 
year  of  married  life  is  always  trying,"  she  repeated.  "Try 
a  short  separation  for  them.  I'll  keep  her  under  my  own 
eye  while  he  is  away,  and  I  dare  say  I  shall  have  the  chance 
of  dropping  her  a  hint  or  two.  Why,  even  I,  when  I  came 
up  here  first,  was  impatient  sometimes,  and  used  to  let  out 
to  you." 

But  Sydney  would  not  have  it  that  his  wife  was  ever  less 
than  perfect.  What  had  somewhat  marred  their  married 
life  was  certainly  not  marring  Derry's. 

"Well,  then  perhaps  it's  that  that's  the  matter.  She  hasn't 
spoken  of  it  to  me  and  she  has  shut  up  like  wax  when  I  have 
tried  to  get  her  to  talk  about  it.  But  women  are  different  at 
such  times.  She  may  easily  feel  ill,  and  perhaps  a  little  set 
against  him  for  the  moment." 

Mrs.  Biddle  knew  so  much,  but  her  knowledge  profited 
her  little  when,  placing  Derry's,  in  the  category  of  ordinary 
marriages,  she  made  her  wrong  deductions. 

However,  there  was  no  doubt  that  he  did  not  resent  being 
sent  to  Petchaburi,  that,  in  fact,  he  welcomed  any  change. 
The  more  Deny  saw  of  Rosaleen,  the  more  his  heart  was  set 
upon  her.  That  was  the  truth  about  it,  and  the  whole  truth. 
Sometimes  he  got  beyond  his  own  self-control,  and  then  there 

149 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

was  nothing  for  it  but  the  drink,  or  the  violent  exercise.  Some 
day,  perhaps,  he  would  have  to  tell  her  he  was  not  her  brother, 
or  her  cousin,  but  just  a  man.  But  when  he  felt  he  was  getting 
to  that  length,  sitting  by  her  in  the  bungalow,  watching  the 
rise  and  fall  of  her  bosom  under  the  folded  kerchief,  the  little 
ear  of  her  so  close  against  the  white  neck,  the  black  abundance 
of  those  plaits,  that  once  he  had  seen  let  down,  he  would  get 
up  and  move  away,  sometimes  he  would  have  to  go  out.  It 
was  he  that  was  her  guardian  just  now,  and  a  sacred  trust 
she  was  to  him — Terence's  wife  that  would  have  been.  But 
it  was  very  hard.  He  thought  it  would  become  less  hard 
if  he  could  leave  her  for  a  spell,  so  long  as  she  was  well  cared 
for  and  in  kind  hands.  He  knew  she  cared  for  him,  but  it 
was  only  as  cousin  or  brother.  She  had  no  unrest  when  she 
sat  by  his  side  in  the  long  evenings. 

Berry's  preparations  were  quickly  made  under  Sydney 
Biddle's  directions.  When  Rosaleen  first  heard  he  was  going 
to  leave  her,  for  a  moment  her  heart  stopped  beating,  and 
all  the  color  ebbed  from  face  and  lips.  She  was  on  the  point 
of  fainting,  but  recovered  herself.  When  his  voice  reached 
her,  she  was  hearing  him  say  that  he  looked  upon  it  as  a  mark 
of  confidence,  as  a  step  upward;  that  he  wanted  to  see  the 
ricefields,  and  that  Bangkok  was  beginning  to  pall.  He  talked 
as  men  whistle  in  moments  of  danger,  it  was  to  keep  up  his 
courage.  To  stay  was  sapping  his  strength,  to  leave  her  was 
the  only  possible  course.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  the 
pain  of  the  impending  separation  could  wring  her  heart. 

"I'm  thinking  it  will  be  good  for  you,  as  you  say,"  she  got 
out  after  a  pause.  "It's  a  country  life  you're  needing.  Here, 
with  the  heat  and  the  games,  the  office,  and  all  the  hospitality 
you're  taking,  it's  thin  you're  growing." 

There  was  nothing  behind  the  quiet  words  to  indicate  the 
pain  which,  after  that  first  acute  thrust  of  it,  was  but  a  dull 
ache.  She  went  on  with  the  sewing  she  was  doing  when  he 
broke  the  news  to  her,  but  the  needle  seemed  to  be  growing, 
now  too  large  to  slip  through  the  stuff,  now  too  small  for  her 
to  hold. 

150 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"You'll  not  be  missing  me?"  he  interrogated. 

She  could  not  trust  her  voice  to  answer.  He  was  unlacing 
his  boots,  and  the  flush  on  his  face  when  he  asked  the  question 
might  well  have  come  from  the  exertion  of  stooping. 

"You'll  not  be  dull  nor  lonely,  I  know,"  he/said.  "There's 
Mrs.  Biddle  will  be  the  best  of  friends  to  you.  And  Sydney  is 
a  very  jewel  of  a  man.  They'd  like  you  to  stay  with  them  all 
the  time  I  am  away." 

"I'd  rather  be  here,  it's  not  lonely  I'll  be,"  she  answered 
quietly.  What  she  had  in  her  mind  was  that  she  would  be 
happier  here,  in  her  own  home,  than  with  strangers,  however 
kind.  She  had  had  many  happy  hours  on  the  verandah  beside 
him,  sewing,  with  him  talking  to  her.  Now  he  had  grown 
restless,  tired  of  her  company.  But  those  good  hours  were  like 
angels  in  the  house.  When  she  would  be  quiet  and  alone  here, 
she  would  hear  the  flutter  of  their  wings  in  the  air,  and  feathers 
from  them  would  fall  softly  about  her,  like  benisons. 

"It's  here  I'd  rather  stay,"  she  said  again,  when  she  could 
trust  her  voice. 

Derry  had  to  tell  the  Biddies  so,  for  he  saw  she  meant  it. 
His  heart  was  sore  because  she  would  not  be  missing  him,  but 
it  is  doubtful  if  it  had  the  ache  that  hers  had.  He,  at  least, 
knew  what  was  the  matter  with  him.  She  thought  she  was 
ungrateful  and  unreasonable,  that  she  had  tired  him  with  her 
difficulties  in  making  friends,  and  in  not  keeping  the  house 
gay  with  company  for  him.  He  had  only  his  longing  for  her 
to  hurt  him,  his  lawless,  dishonorable  longing,  as  he  voiced  it 
to  himself.  She  had  a  thousand  misgivings;  the  knowledge 
that  she  was  a  drag  and  a  drawback  to  him  deepened.  It  was 
his  life  he  had  sacrificed  to  her  and  to  Terence.  The  weight 
she  carried  was  as  a  load  in  her  heart  and  a  heaviness  in  her  brain. 
Only  those  winged,  happy  hours  that  had  been  in  the  bungalow 
were  there  to  soften  the  new  solitude. 

She  bade  him  good-bye  with  what  seemed  to  him  such  cold- 
ness and  indifference  that  he  had  not  even  the  courage  to  kiss 
her,  as  he  had  intended,  with  the  Biddies  on  the  platform  to 
see  him  off,  both  of  them  wondering  at  the  omission. 

151 


"They've  said  their  good-byes  at  home,"  Emma  explained 
But  neither  she  nor  Sydney  felt  very  satisfied.  Derry's  face 
was  at  the  window,  straining  for  a  last  look  of  her,  but  it  was 
only  her  back  he  saw,  for  already  she  had  turned  away.  All 
her  spirit  was  set  on  hiding  her  distress;  but  how  could  he,  or 
the  Biddies  know  that? 


THREE  weeks  after  Berry's  departure  for  Petchaburi, 
Mrs.  Sydney  Biddle  called  at  the  bungalow  to  invite 
Rosaleen  to  go  with  her  to  a  Royal  cremation.  Hardly 
a  day  had  passed  without  some  attention  on  the  part  of  the 
older  woman,  and  this,  although  it  sounded  rather  gruesome, 
was  to  be  a  great  function. 

"You  know  it  is  partially  our  fault  that  you  are  lonely. 
Sydney  might  have  sent  someone  else  to  Petchaburi,  so  you 
must  let  us  do  what  we  can  to  compensate  you  for  his  absence," 
Mrs.  Biddle  was  always  saying.  But  a  word  let  drop  acci- 
dentally, a  word  heard  at  the  Club,  borne  on  the  air,  told  Rosa- 
leen that  Derry  had  been  sent  away  because  it  seemed  to  be  bet- 
ter for  him  to  be  got  out  of  the  town.  And  her  sensitiveness 
suffered  under  the  possibility  that  someone  had  guessed  how 
things  were  with  them.  She  knew  it  was  impossible,  yet  the 
thought  of  it  made  her  intercourse  with  her  neighbors  always 
less  easy;  it  was  only  the  Biddies  whose  kindness  was  impossible 
to  avoid.  And  she  no  longer  wished  to  avoid  it.  But  for  the 
feeling  that  she  was  talking  it  unfairly,  that,  if  they  knew  her 
for  what  she  was,  they  would  not  be  treating  her  as  they  were, 
but  for  Rosaleen 's  consciousness  of  her  duplicity,  in  fact, 
Emma  would  have  got  through  all  Rosaleen 's  reserves,  as, 
indeed,  she  had  already  got  through  many  of  them.  The 
girl  wanted  mothering,  that  was  the  truth  of  it;  and  often  for 
a  few  moments  now  her  defenses  went  down.  She  talked  to 
Emma  Biddle  of  the  old  days  in  the  convent;  now  and  again  of 
the  green  glory  of  Ranmore. 

"She  is  frightened  at  what  is  before  her,"  Emma  told  Syd- 
ney, "that's  the  whole  truth  of  it,  I  do  believe.  And  she  has 
resented  it  with  him.  I  only  hope  it  will  be  all  over  before  he 
comes  back.  You  can  keep  him  there  until  the  spring.  My! 

153 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

we  shall  see  a  difference  between  them  then.  For  she  is  fond 
of  him,  Syd,  I  am  absolutely  sure  of  that.  But  she  is  homesick 
and  lonely,  and  frightened,  and  much  shyer  than  most  young 
things,  I  'm  getting  very  fond  of  her.  All  her  little  gaucheries 
and  awkwardnesses  with  people  are  due  to  her  convent  training. 
After  all,  if  you  were  to  take  any  girl,  only  six  months  out  of  a 
convent,  and  those  six  months  passed  in  a  ruined  Irish  castle, 
you  would  not  expect  her  to  know  about  returning  people's 
cards,  and  having  her  own  visiting  day,  and  that  sort  of  thing. 
She  is  handy  enough  with  her  needle;  you  should  see  the  little 
things  she  is  making,  and  has  made.  Yes,  Syd,  you  may  smile, 
and  say  all  my  geese  are  swans.  But  I  'm  getting  fond  of  Rosa- 
leen.  If  I'd  had  a  daughter,  I  wouldn't  have  wanted  her  to 
be  very  different.  She  is  not  given  to  making  friends,  but  she 
kissed  me  to-day — she  did  indeed — and  said  I  'd  been  so  good 
to  her." 

Mrs.  Sydney  Biddle  was  quite  touched,  and  pleased  by  a 
growing  dependence  upon  her  that  Rosaleen  manifested. 
Sydney  made  her  a  present  of  a  dog,  an  Irish  terrier,  to  keep 
her  company  of  an  evening.  The  dog  and  the  Biddies,  and 
her  youth,  from  which  hope  was  inseparable,  helped  her  over 
these  weeks.  Deny  wrote  to  her,  wrote  quite  often;  he  wished 
her  to  write  to  him,  too,  and  she  did,  letters  full  of  the  Biddies' 
kindness,  and  about  the  terrier,  which  she  called  "Buggins," 
and  he  would  know  why.  For  "Buggins"  had  been  a  feature 
at  Ranmore — the  terrier  that  was  cleverer  than  a  ferret.  They 
had  common  memories  about  "  Buggins,"  and  his  letters  and 
hers  told  anecdotes.  Derry  wrote  of  a  primitive,  wholesome  life, 
lived  mostly  in  the  open  air.  He  made  light  of  physical  dis- 
comforts and  deprivations.  "I  wish  you  were  with  me,"  he 
wrote,  more  than  once.  "I  sleep  in  a  tent,  and  my  food,  such 
as  it  is,  is  cooked  on  the  doorstep  of  the  sola.  I  bathe  in  the 
river,  and  ride  my  pony  all  over  the  place.  It's  fat  I'm  getting 
now,  and  so  sunburnt  that  it's  an  Indian  I'll  be  taken  for  when 
I  come  back.  ..." 

Rosaleen  was  glad  he  wished  she  were  with  him.  She 
thought,  maybe,  she  could  have  added  some  comforts  to  the 

154 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

menu  he  gave  her.  She  told  Mrs.  Biddle  of  his  letter  as  they 
drove  to  the  Royal  cremation.  Mrs.  Biddle  said,  perhaps 
thoughtlessly,  considering  that  she  had  arranged  it,  never 
doubting  the  wisdom  of  the  arrangement: 

"I  used  always  to  go  up  country  with  Sydney  when  we 
were  first  married.  I  couldn't  bear  to  be  without  him  for  a 
day.  I  always  said  it  was  the  best  part  of  my  honeymoon — 
no  one  but  me  and  Sydney  and  the  coolies.  We  had  our  sleep- 
ing-tent just  outside  the  sala,  and  were  in  the  open  together 
nearly  all  the  day,  riding  the  little  Siamese  ponies,  bathing  in 
the  river.  I  had  a  maid  then,  who  would  weave  wreaths  for 
my  hair  while  I  was  bathing.  And,  not  to  offend  her,  I  always 
put  them  on  when  I  came  out  of  the  water.  You  can  picture 
me." 

Mrs.  Biddle  was  past  forty  now,  and  her  gray  hair  did  not 
look  as  if  it  could  be  appropriately  crowned  with  flowers. 

"We  wore  hardly  any  clothes  out  there.  I  bathed  in  my 
chemise,  and  had  a  dry  one  waiting  for  me,  over  that  I  wore  a 
kimona,  so  you  can  guess  how  I  looked,  with  the  wreath  to  top 
it.  Syd  would  come  to  meet  us  with  nothing  on  but  a  vest  and 
a  pair  of  Chinese  silk  trousers.  The  pair  of  us  would  have 
made  a  sensation  in  Bond  Street.  What?  But  there  was  no 
one  to  see  us  then.  Oh,  yes,  there  was,  by  the  way,  I'm  for- 
getting the  natives  who  followed  us  wherever  we  went,  squatting 
on  their  flanks  and  watching.  And  the  washerwomen!  I 
remember  sitting  outside  the  sala,  working,  and  my  washer- 
woman and  another  squatting  down  just  in  front  of  me.  What 
did  she  do  presently  but  lift  up  my  skirts  and  show  the  others 
the  clocks  on  my  stockings!  Quite  gravely,  as  if,  having 
washed  them,  they  were  as  much  hers  as  mine,  and  she  was 
proud  to  show  them." 

Mrs.  Biddle  explained  everything  that  wanted  explaining 
in  Berry's  letter.  The  sala  was  a  sort  of  resting-place  for 
travelers,  generally  attached  to  the  temples.  It  is  only  a  large 
barn,  built  of  wood,  and  raised  from  the  ground  on  piles,  but 
many  of  these  salas  have  been  beautified  outside  with  frescoes. 
Derry  was  living  in  one  of  the  best,  or  living  outside  it,  rather, 

155 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

for  when  he  was  not  in  his  sleeping-tent  he  seemed  to  be  on 
his  pony. 

It  appeared  to  Rosaleen  but  a  short  drive  to  where  the  Royal 
cremation  was  taking  place,  so  interested  was  she  in  picturing 
Deny  amid  such  scenes. 

This  festivity  of  the  Royal  cremation  had  been  long  talked 
of  in  the  town.  Nothing  in  the  way  of  our  Western  funeral 
services  could  be  compared  to  it.  Long  before  they  reached 
the  long  room,  with  its  roof  of  white  cotton,  which  was  to  be 
the  scene  of  the  obsequies,  they  saw  the  road  lined  with  booths, 
in  which  the  Siamese  people,  in  their  native  costumes,  were 
performing  wonderful,  endless  plays,  and  doing  the  national 
dance.  The  national  dance  is  with  the  hands  and  the  body 
and  the  head,  everything  but  with  the  legs,  which  scarcely 
move  at  all.  Many  of  the  dancers  wore  great  gilt  masks, 
which  certainly  added  to  the  bizarre  effect. 

There  is  no  fixed  time,  apparently,  in  Siam  for  a  cremation. 
The  corpses  on  this  occasion  were  of  a  young  prince,  a  nephew 
of  the  King,  and  of  his  mother.  The  lad  had  died  last  year  in 
Germany,  but  the  mother  had  been  fifteen  years  waiting  for 
her  funeral  service. 

Rosaleen  and  Mrs.  Biddle  sat  on  benches  outside  the  death- 
chamber  while  relays  of  priests,  in  yellow  vestments,  went  in 
chanting,  and  seemed  to  stay  there,  awhile,  incessantly  chanting. 
When  they  emerged  they  were  wearing  new  and  more  brilliant 
yellow  robes,  and  they  carried  embroidered  fans!  These  were 
their  presents  from  the  dead — farewell  presents.  They  seemed 
very  proud  and  pleased  with  these  presents,  especially  with  the 
fans.  Their  thin,  impassive,  ascetic  faces  shone  with  an  expres- 
sion of  great  content,  and  their  oblique  slits  of  black  eyes  seemed 
more  awake,  more  human.  Rosaleen  thought  she  could  detect 
a  satisfied  cupidity.  She  was  sure  they  looked  happier  than 
when  they  went  in. 

The  Queen  was  the  first  of  the  royal  party  to  arrive.  The 
ceremonial  itself,  more  than  a  thousand  years  old,  a  legacy  from 
Buddha,  was  not  made  less  striking  by  the  example  of  modern 
science  introduced.  The  Queen  arrived  in  a  motor-car,  quite 

156 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

up  to  date,  the  chassis  English,  but  the  coach-work  from  Paris, 
and  in  quiet  Parisian  taste.  The  car  was  closed,  and  she  sat 
back  in-  the  corner  of  it,  without  bonnet  or  veil,  still,  strange, 
Eastern  figure,  quite  immobile. 

Then  came  the  Siamese  band,  playing  the  Siamese  anthem, 
a  most  dire  and  discordant  chant.  The  band  preceded  His 
Majesty,  King  Chulalongkorn,  who  made  his  appearance  in  a 
European  uniform.  He  was,  however,  accompanied  by  a 
bodyguard  of  eight  Siamese,  holding  over  him  an  enormous 
umbrella  of  cloth  of  gold,  that  glittered  in  the  sunshine. 

The  urns  that  contained  the  corpses  were  two  tall  vases, 
Greek  in  form.  They  were  probably  of  lacquer,  but  looked 
flimsy,  as  if  made  of  gold  paper.  The  ceremony  consisted  of 
the  king  setting  fire  first  to  one  and  then  to  another  of  these  vases. 
There  were  sandal  flowers  and  sandal- wood  candles  in  the  death 
chamber.  By  the  time  Rosaleen  and  Mrs.  Biddle  had  pushed 
their  way  in,  the  smell  was  something  appalling.  It  was  con- 
cocted of  the  sandal-wood  candles,  and  the  burning  urns,  per- 
haps also  the  priests.  In  any  case  the  two  ladies  were  glad  to 
push  their  way  out  again. 

Presents  were  given  to  them,  too,  tokens  with  inscriptions  in 
Siamese,  and  sandal-wood  flowers.  The  whole  thing  was  much 
more  like  a  wedding  than  a  funeral,  with  perhaps  a  dash  of  a 
country  fair  thrown  in,  to  add  to  the  other  incongruities.  Both 
women  were  conscious  of  headache  and  a  sense  of  fatigue.  The 
carriage  was  waiting  for  them,  but  beside  it  stood  Sydney's 
own  syce;  he  had  evidently  driven  out,  for  the  dog-cart  was 
there,  too. 

"Why,  there  is  Sydney  come  to  meet  us!"  exclaimed  Emma. 
"That  is  good  of  him.  Just  like  him,  too!  I  didn't  ask  him 
to  join  us,  for  I  knew  he  was  up  to  his  neck  in  work." 

But  Sydney  was  not  there,  only  a  note  from  him,  sufficiently 
urgent  for  him  to  have  sent  it  instead  of  waiting  until  his  wife 
returned. 

"What  can  he  be  writing  to  me  about?"  she  said  wonderingly, 
as  she  took  the  note  from  the  man  who  produced  it  from  his 
turban  and  handed  it  to  her. 

11  157 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"DEAREST, — I've  had  news  from  Petchaburi.  You'll  know 
how  to  break  it  to  the  girl.  Ranmore  has  had  a  sunstroke. 
Mitchison  writes  in  a  great  state.  I  thought  I'd  better  let  you 
know  at  once,  so  that  if  she  decides  to  go  up  to  him,  you  can  go 
home  with  her  and  help  to  get  her  off.  Send  me  word  what  you 
think,  and  I'll  see  about  a  seat  in  the  train,  and  join  you  at  the 
bungalow  later.  Make  as  light  of  it  as  you  can.  Mitchison  is 
not  very  experienced,  and  she  mustn't  have  more  anxiety  than 
necessary  on  her  way  up." 

It  was  characteristic  of  Sydney,  and  reflected  his  own  married 
relations,  that  he  never  doubted  Rosaleen  would  want  to  join 
her  husband,  whatever  her  own  condition  or  the  trouble  before 
her.  His  wife  thought  the  same,  but  she  foresaw  more  clearly 
than  he  what  such  a  decision  would  mean.  She  had  the  sense 
to  keep  the  contents  of  the  letter  to  herself  for  the  moment,  to 
make  no  further  exclamation.  She  gave  the  man  his  message, 
and  he  salaamed  and  left  them.  She  could  begin  to  tell  Rosaleen 
when  they  were  nearing  home;  there  was  no  need  to  prolong  the 
tension.  The  heat  was  intense. 

It  was  that  intense  heat  that  gave  her  the  first  opening. 

"If  it  were  not  that  you  are  not  in  the  best  of  health,  you'd 
be  almost  better  off  in  Petchaburi  than  here,"  she  commenced, 
"it  never  seemed  too  hot  to  me." 

"It's  cool  in  the  evenings,  Derry  writes.  He  sleeps  half  out- 
side his  tent,  he  says." 

"He  has  a  fine  constitution."  This  was  vague,  and  seemed 
to  have  little  to  do  with  what  had  gone  before. 

"Derry  is  very  strong,"  Rosaleen  answered.  Then  she  was 
quiet  a  little,  partly  because  her  head  ached,  partly  because  she 
was  thinking  of  Derry's  six  feet  two,  and  the  breadth  of  his 
shoulders.  It  was  but  a  little  fellow  Terence  had  seemed  beside 
him  in  those  far-off  days.  He  had  wheedling  ways,  and  a  voice 
to  which  no  one  could  say  no;  but  it  was  Derry  was  the  fine  man. 

Out  of  the  fulness  of  her  heart  she  began  to  talk  of  feats  of 
strength  in  which  she  had  seen  him  engaged. 

"He  wrestled  with  Tim  Doolan  once,  and  Tim  was  the 
champion  of  the  whole  of  the  south  of  Ireland.  Derry  didn't 

158 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

know  the  tricks  as  well  as  he  did,  but  he  just  stood  firm  on  his 
feet,  I've  heard  Terence  tell,  like  a  statue;  and  the  other  could 
neither  grip  nor  hold  him.  All  of  a  sudden  he  tried  for  a  fall, 
and  then  indeed  he  laid  hold  of  him — it's  Derry  laid  hold,  I'm 
meaning — and  he  put  Tim  down  as  if  he'd  been  a  child,  flat  on 
the  ground,  with  his  shoulders  touching.  All  the  people  shouted 
and  called  out  to  him  ..." 

"You  are  very  proud  of  him,"  Emma  said  curiously. 

"It's  proud  of  him  I've  cause  to  be,"  answered  Rosaleen, 
unstrung  a  little  through  her  memories. 

"And  yet  Sydney  and  I  have  sometimes  wondered  ..." 
the  ready  flush  warned  her. 

" — Have  sometimes  wondered  if  you  and  he  quite  hit  it  off 
together.  I  don't  mean  that  exactly,  but  you  are  not  quite  like 
other  married  couples,  you  know." 

"Is  it  different  we  are  then?"  stammered  poor  Rosaleen, 
with  a  clutch  on  her  heart. 

Mrs.  Biddle  mentioned  casually  one  of  the  differences  she 
had  noted,  and  Rosaleen's  flush  was  painful. 

"Of  course  you  are  both  of  you  very  young.  I'm  not  asking 
for  your  confidence.  Only  this  note  from  Sydney  was  about 
Derry. " 

"About  Derry?"  she  faltered,  and  all  the  flush  of  color  died 
out  suddenly.  "What  is  it  about  Derry?"  She  laid  her  hand 
on  Emma's  arm.  "What  is  it  about  Derry?  There's  no  acci- 
dent ?  It's  not  ill  he  is,  and  you  asking  me  about  his  strength  ?" 

"I  don't  think  it  is  anything  very  serious.  You  must  keep 
yourself  calm.  We  are  driving  home  as  quickly  as  possible,  and 
there  is  nothing  to  be  done  until  you  get  there."  She  kept 
hold  of  the  hand  that  lay  nervous  on  her  arm,  and  petted  and 
patted  it.  "  Lord  Ranmore  seems  to  have  had  a  slight  sunstroke, 
Mr.  Mitchison  has  written  ..." 

"What  will  I  do?  What  will  I  do?  I'm  alone  the  day!" 
She  wrung  her  hands,  she  made  as  if  she  would  get  out  of  the 
carriage — "Is  it  a  sunstroke  you're  telling  me?  Oh!  it's  dead 
he  is,  Mr.  Derry  is  dead!  Let  me  be,  let  me  be.  I  want  to  get 
out.  It's  not  bearin'  it  I'll  be.  And  me  alone  here!  She  saw 

159 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

her  loneliness,  the  horror  of  her  position;  she  shook  all  over,  her 
teeth  chattered,  she  had  no  courage  at  all.  Had  she  not  seen 
Terence  go  forth,  all  gay  and  strong,  and  then  the  telegram  on 
the  top  of  it,  and  never  again  the  light  laugh  of  him,  or  the  low, 
wheedling  voice.  And  now  Derry! 

It  never  struck  her  that  she  might  go  to  him,  it  never  seemed 
to  enter  her  head  once  through  the  drive,  during  which,  as  Mrs. 
Biddle  said  afterward,  she  was  as  a  girl  possessed,  crying, 
moaning,  and  saying  the  strangest  things.  Mrs.  Biddle  was 
disappointed  in  her,  she  seemed  to  have  no  practical  sense  at  all, 
and  certainly  no  idea  that  if  her  husband  were  ill,  and  alone  in 
the  up-country  sola,  it  was  her  place  to  go  to  him,  and  that  as 
quickly  as  possible,  and  see  what  good  nursing  would  do.  But 
then,  of  course,  Rosaleen  had  no  idea  she  could  go  to  Derry,  nor 
that  he  would  want  her. 

Emma  had  a  moaning,  distraught  creature  on  her  hands  by 
the  time  they  got  home.  She  sent  for  a  useless  doctor,  and 
discussed  every  remedy,  from  bromide  to  a  hot-water  bottle,  she 
exhausted  reassurances  and  scolding.  She  resorted  to  open 
reproaches  at  last,  and  told  Rosaleen  the  harm  she  might  be 
doing  to  another  life  dependent  upon  hers.  Finally  Sydney 
arrived  upon  the  scene,  and  was  taken  to  see  the  now  almost 
uncontrollable  patient. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  see  Mitchison's  letter?"  he  asked  the 
girl,  who  had  got  no  further  than  the  veranda,  where  she  lay  in 
a  huddled  heap,  moaning  and  saying  it  was  she  that  was  the 
wicked  girl,  and  it  was  through  her  that  Derry  had  followed 
Terence  ...  it  was  the  ill-luck  she  brought  them  all.  And 
much  more,  equally  foreign  to  the  situation,  as  Sydney  saw  it. 
He  and  Emma  could  only  suggest  the  Celtic  temperament  as  an 
excuse  for  her. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do,  I  really  don't.  She  has  been  like 
this  ever  since  I  told  her,  moaning  and  crying  out  that  it  is  a 
judgment  upon  her;  and  talking  about  Terence — that's  the 
cousin  who  was  killed  horse-racing — the  one  this  one  succeeded. 
I  can't  make  head  or  tail  of  it  all.  She  certainly  does  not  think 
of  going  to  him,  she  could  not  go  to  him  in  this  state.  You'll 

160 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

have  to  send  someone,  if  Mitchison  asks  you  for  help.  Who 
would  be  of  any  use  ?  What  time  does  the  train  go  ?"  Certainly 
Emma  was  nothing  if  not  practical. 

Sydney  suggested  she  should  tell  the  girl  they  were  sending 
someone  up  to  look  after  her  husband.  And  Emma  managed 
to  convey  this  in  an  interval  of  comparative  quiet.  The  effect 
was  electrical. 

"It's  not  dead  he  is,  it's  not  his  death  you've  been  trying  to 
break  to  me!"  She  brushed  her  arm  against  her  eyes.  "Now, 
tell  me  again,  what  is  it  you're  saying  .  .  .  ?" 

She  was  very  confused.  The  news  had  come  on  the  top  of 
great  fatigue,  and  her  head  was  swimming  and  weak  with  it. 
She  looked  round,  and  saw  them  all  clustered  about  her.  Sydney 
with  his  anxious  face,  and  Emma,  who  had  been  crying  with 
annoyance  at  her  uselessness,  at  some  failure  of  tact  of  which 
she  was  conscious,  the  doctor,  who  wished  he  might  get  back  to 
his  tennis,  and  had  harsh  thoughts  about  "hysterical  young 
women";  and  the  impassive  native  servants.  Sydney  took  up 
the  parable. 

"  Lord  Ranmore  is  very  far  from  dead,  I  doubt  if  he  is  even 
very  ill.  He  has  had  slight  sunstroke,  probably  on  the  top 
of  a  touch  of  malaria.  The  officer  he  has  with  him  is  young 
and  new  to  the  country."  Sydney  could  not  help  letting  out 
what  he  felt  was  that  which  Emma  was  signaling  to  him  not 
to  mention,  "I  thought  you'd  want  to  go  yourself." 

She  interrupted  him. 

"Is  it  me — me,  you're  meaning?  Me  to  go  up  and  nurse 
him?" 

"Well,  that  is  what  I  thought,  certainly." 

Of  course,  it  was  the  Celtic  temperament,  and  embarrassing 
to  an  Englishman,  although  the  Englishman  was  Sydney 
Biddle,  who  only  lived  to  do  other  people  kindness,  and  escape 
from  their  gratitude. 

Rosaleen  flung  herself  on  her  knees  before  him  and  kissed 
his  hands. 

"You'll  be  sending  me  to  him!  You'll  be  letting  me  go 
to  him?" 

161 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Derry  wasn't  dead  at  all,  he  was  only  ill,  and  she  it  was 
who  might  go  to  him,  and  nurse  him,  and  be  of  service  to  him. 
The  nightmare  of  it  passed  so  quickly  that  it  seemed  as  if 
it  could  never  have  been.  The  whole  aspect  of  the  case  was 
altered.  Oh!  if  she  could  be  of  use  to  him!  Of  course,  the 
doctor  was  [cautious,  and  Mrs.  Biddle  concerned.  They 
had  seen  her  breakdown,  but  this  Rosaleen,  pleading  to  be 
allowed  to  go,  pleading  for  haste,  asking  for  directions,  was 
a  different  creature. 

Emma  tried  to  explain  to  her  that  she  was  taking  a  risk. 
They  had  none  of  them  heard  her  laugh  as  she  laughed  then — 
so  gaily,  so  like  a  child's  laugh. 

"Is  it  risk  you're  talking  of,  and  Derry  waiting  for  his 
nursing?" 

There  had  never  been  any  real  difficulty,  this  was  what 
Sydney  anticipated.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  packing  and 
arranging  to  do,  there  were  medical  and  other  comforts  to 
seek.  Mrs.  Biddle  undertook  to  put  the  bungalow  to  rights 
the  next  day.  Blankets  and  linen  and  perishable  things  had 
to  be  stored  away  with  camphor  balls.  It  is  doubtful  if  Rosaleen 
knew  any  of  the  precautions  that  would  have  to  be  taken  at 
the  bungalow  lest  they  should  come  back  to  find  the  insects 
had  devoured  it.  It  was  little  she  cared  for  blankets  or  bunga- 
low. She  was  to  go  to  Derry,  to  nurse  him  through  his  illness. 
That  night,  which  passed  so  quickly  for  the  Biddies,  who 
worked  as  if  they  were,  not  their  own  native  servants,  but  half 
a  dozen  energetic  English  ones,  seemed  to  Rosaleen  to  drag. 
She  wanted  to  be  in  the  train,  on  her  way  to  him.  She  would 
have  forgotten  the  rest  she  needed  so  badly,  and  her  own  clothes, 
and  everything  beside,  but  for  Emma,  who  never  left  her  until 
she  saw  her  into  the  train,  having  supervised  her  breakfast, 
and  insisted  on  its  substantiality.  The  train  started  at  seven 
in  the  morning;  in  less  than  twenty-four  hours  she  would  be 
with  Derry.  Was  it  likely  she  could  think  of  anything  else? 
It  is  to  her  credit  that  in  the  end  she  did  remember  to  thank 
Sydney,  to  kiss  Emma,  to  falter  out  her  apologies  for  her 
"desperate"  bad  behavior. 

162 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"And  we  thought  they  didn't  care  for  each  other!"  Sydney 
Biddle  ejaculated,  when  they  had  watched  the  slowly  moving 
train  steam  out  of  the  station,  and  turned  their  faces  toward 
home. 

"But  still  there  is  something  strange  between  them,"  Emma 
persisted,  "or  why  did  she  reproach  herself,  and  talk  about 
the  other  one?" 

"Perhaps  there  had  been  rivalry  between  the  cousins,  and 
she  only  married  Derry  after  the  death  of  the  other,"  Sydney 
answered,  getting  unconsciously  somewhat  near  the  truth. 

"They  must  have  been  married  longer  than  that,"  Emma 
answered.  "It  was  only  in  October  he  was  killed,  I  remember." 

"Oh!  yes,  so  it  was,  the  first  autumn  meeting." 


CHAPTER  XV 

AT  Petchaburi,  where  the  great  acres  of  rice-fields,  which 
but  a  month  ago  had  murmured  yellow  and  wheat- 
like  under  the  sun,  now  lay  brown  and  bare  in  the 
heat,  Mr.  Mitchison  met  her  with  the  good  news  that  her 
husband  was  conscious.  For  the  first  twenty -four  hours  he 
had  lain  without  speaking,  there  was  no  doctor  within  call, 
but  an  American  missionary  had  come  over  from  [Ratburi. 
Mr.  Mitchison  did  not  know  if  he  had  any  medical  qualifi- 
cations, but  he  knew  he  had  carrotty  hair.  .  .  . 

Anything  feebler,  or  more  futile,  than  Mr.  Mitchison  was 
never  yet  designated  by  the  name  of  man.  He  was  very  small, 
and  had  pale  hair,  a  retreating  forehead,  and  an  underlip 
that  drooped  in  a  half-open  mouth. 

"What  was  a  fellow  to  do,  you  know?"  an  observation  that 
he  made  at  least  three  times,  represented  not  only  his  con- 
versation but  his  actions.  He  did  nothing,  ever.  But  then, 
as  Emma  Biddle  said,  he  was  very  well  connected;  and  when 
his  family  had  exported  him,  as  a  last  resource,  to  Sydney, 
Sydney  was  bound  to  find  him  a  job.  He  was  "attached" 
to  the  Survey  Department.  In  what  capacity  neither  he  nor 
anyone  else  quite  fathomed.  He  rode  about  a  great  deal  on 
his  pony,  and,  whatever  the  pace,  he  managed  to  keep  his 
eyeglass  in  his  eye.  Perhaps  this  eyeglass  was  the  most  distinct- 
ive thing  about  him.  It  was  not  on  a  string,  it  simply  rested 
in  the  orbit,  and  gave  him  what  expression  he  had.  Of  course, 
his  name  was  Augustus,  and  he  was  in  love  with  the  daughter 
of  the  American  missionary.  But  these  two  things  Rosaleen 
only  discovered  later  on. 

Deny  had  had  a  sunstroke,  and  the  missionary  had  made  the 
long  journey  from  Ratburi  especially  to  attend  him,  and  had 
stayed  up  with  him  for  two  nights,  "just  putting  wet  cloths  on 

164 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

his  head.  I'd  have  done  it  for  him  myself,  only,  give  you  my 
word,  I  never  thought  of  it.  The  fellow  couldn't  speak.  My 
gad!  it  was  awful;  thought  he  was  going  to  die,  you  know. 
Kept  wondering  what  I'd  do  with  the  corpse  on  my  hands. 
Brother  Whippell,  American  fellow,  calls  himself  'brother,' 
said  I  wasn't  to  worry  about  that.  Can't  help  worrying;  what 
the  dooce  can  a  fellow  do  with  a  corpse  on  his  hands?" 

Rosaleen  was  quite  reassured  by  Mr.  Mitchison;  her  natural 
sense  of  humor  came  into  play  with  him,  and  in  the  days  that 
followed  she  grew  quite  glad  of  his  companionship.  He  fetched 
and  carried,  and  his  absolute  vacuity  made  him  unembarrassing. 

The  temple,  and  the  sola  that  was  attached  to  it,  lay  just  as 
Emma  Biddle  had  spoken  of  them.  Deny  was  still  in  the 
sleeping-tent,  watched  over  now  by  his  head  coolie.  The  sala 
was  dining-drawing-and-living-room,  the  food  was  cooked  on 
the  doorstep.  The  native  village  was  within  easy  reach,  and 
presently  the  natives  made  their  presence  obvious,  they  squatted 
on  the  step,  they  looked  in  at  the  window,  they  were  ubiquitous, 
curious,  utterly  useless,  and  continuously  in  the  way. 

It  was  Mr.  Mitchison  who  told  Deny  that  his  wife  had  come. 
Derry  was  very  enfeebled,  he  tried  to  rise  to  welcome  her. 
Rosaleen  had  to  take  her  courage  in  both  hands,  and  go  in  to 
him.  He  was  in  that  stage  of  physical  weakness  when  nothing 
seems  surprising.  The  pain  in  his  head  that  the  sunstroke  had 
left  kept  him  supine,  the  attempt  at  rising  to  welcome  Rosaleen 
failed. 

"Is  it  you?"  he  asked. 

The  true  nurse  is  born,  not  made.  The  science  of  nursing 
may  be  taught,  but  the  instinct,  the  natural  gift,  is  what  counts 
in  an  emergency.  Rosaleen  was  a  born  nurse.  The  moment 
she  saw  Derry  lying  there,  all  his  strength  gone,  his  half-glazed 
eyes  scarcely  recognizing  his  surroundings,  the  very  inertness 
and  position  showing  how  it  was  with  him,  it  was  this  instinct 
that  awoke. 

"It's  myself,"  she  answered,  and  straightway  forgot  every- 
thing but  his  illness  and  need  of  help.  There  were  bandages 
on  his  head,  these  she  renewed,  he  felt  the  cool  relief  of  them 

165 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

and  murmured  thanks.  She  asked  Mr.  Mitchison  when  Deny 
had  had  food,  and  Mr.  Mitchison  said  he  didn't  know,  the 
American  fellow  had  been  over  in  the  morning. 

In  the  strange  solitude  of  that  camping-out  station  Rosaleen 
passed  the  next  fortnight  in  almost  complete  happiness.  For, 
first  Derry  grew  convalescent  under  her  care,  and  then  Deny 
grew  well,  and  the  development  of  their  daily  life  proved  a  sum- 
mer idyll.  Their  isolation,  save  for  the  coolies,  was  almost  com- 
plete. As  long  as  Derry  needed  her  she  sat  with  him,  doing 
her  needle-work,  talking  a  little,  even  reading  to  him  now  and 
again.  She  got  used  to  the  coolies  clustering  and  squatting 
around  and  about  them.  She  had  her  own  tent,  but  the  tents 
were  hot,  and  there  was  little  privacy  in  them.  A  river  ran 
through  the  rice-fields,  and  presently  Derry  was  having  his 
daily  swim,  then  came  the  time  when  he  was  able  to  mount  his 
pony  and  get  back  to  his  work. 

Something  had  changed  in  their  relations  to  each  other. 
In  Bangkok  Derry  had  been  restless,  excitable,  full  of  high 
spirits,  certainly,  but  high,  uneven  spirits;  here  he  was  quieter. 
Sometimes,  as  she  sat  sewing  in  those  days  of  his  convalescence, 
and  looked  up  to  see  that  it  was  well  with  him,  she  would  meet 
his  eyes  intent  on  hers.  If  her  head  drooped  quickly  he  would 
say  nothing,  but  once  or  twice  she  met  a  smile  in  his  eyes,  as  of 
contentment. 

"It  is  good  to  have  you  sitting  there,"  he  said.  "You  can't 
think  what  the  loneliness  was  those  first  few  nights.  I  had  no 
idea  what  was  the  matter  with  me.  It  was  malaria,  of  course; 
the  sunstroke  was  nothing,  it  just  came  from  standing  about 
trying  to  get  warm  when  I  was  in  one  of  my  shivering  fits. 
You  haven't  seen  Whippell  yet,  have  you?  It's  a  long  pull 
from  the  Missionaries  here,  but  he  told  Mitchison  he  would 
come  over  any  time  he  was  wanted.  It  was  only  quinine  and 
wet  rags  they  could  do  for  me  until  you  came." 

"And  what  could  I  do  for  you?"  She  smiled  at  him;  it  was 
almost  the  girl  Rosaleen  he  had  got  back  to  himself. 

"Just  sitting  there." 

"And  the  broth  I've  made  you?" 

166 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"And  the  bandages  you've  put  on  my  head,  and  the  cool 
little  hands." 

"Now  it's  you  that  are  talking  too  much." 

"Then  you  talk  to  me  instead." 

"But  what  shall  I  be  talking  about?" 

"Why,  Ranmore,  to  be  sure." 

They  were  never  tired  of  talking  of  the  great  stone  house, 
with  its  towers  and  its  turrets,  of  the  woods  that  surrounded  it, 
and  the  still  lake  with  the  taste  of  the  brine  in  it,  where  the 
herons  made  their  nests,  and  the  sea-birds  found  their  way;  of 
the  tussocked  grass,  and  the  green,  lush  stretches;  of  the  roses 
which  grew  all  the  year  round  in  the  old  kitchen-garden,  the 
hazel  and  birch  in  the  coppice,  and  the  sheep  that  wandered  at 
their  own  free  will  with  only  Buggins  to  bark  at  their  thin  heels. 

What  lay  behind  all  these  reminiscences  was  their  one  sum- 
mer there  together.  A  hundred  times  Deny  had  it  on  his  lips 
to  ask,  what  of  the  morning  when  they  had  met  before  the 
household  was  astir,  what  of  their  one  evening  together  when 
all  the  enchanted  wood  was  bathed  in  moonlight?  Lady 
Ranmore  had  sent  Rosaleen  to  fetch  a  book,  and  Deny  had 
followed  when  he  saw  her  slip  out.  She  had  heard  him  coming 
and  fled  in  caprice,  but  he  had  overtaken  her.  She  had  been 
a  faun  that  night,  dancing,  laughing,  evading,  eluding  him  under 
the  shadows  of  the  trees,  in  the  fairy  rings,  now  in  the  leaflets 
darkness,  now  in  the  patches  of  the  moonlight.  Her  hair  had 
floated  about  her.  .  .  . 

"You  mind  that  night ?"  he  asked  her  once,  and  then 

stopped.  But  she  knew  which  night  he  meant,  and  what 
Derry  might  have  said  to  her  then  had  she  been  a  woman 
grown,  and  ready  to  hear  it,  not  just  a  maid  who  wanted  to  hear 
naught,  only  to  dance  and  to  laugh  while  the  big  fellow  admired 
and  pursued.  .  .  . 

Once,  indeed,  in  those  days  of  convalescence,  when  she  was 
folding  away  her  work,  preparing  to  leave  him  for  the  night, 
he  put  a  hand  on  her  arm. 

"Rosaleen,"  he  asked,  with  the  note  in  his  voice  that  went 
right  to  the  core  of  her  heart,  and  set  it  beating  wildly.  "  Rosa- 

167 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

leen!  it's  not  always  you'll  be  mourning  for  Terence?"  But 
the  flush  and  the  flutter  and  the  fear  of  her,  as  she  dropped  her 
work,  as  she  turned  from  him,  as  she  answered  nothing,  silenced 
him.  He  could  hear  his  own  heart  beating,  she  could  hear  hers, 
but  they  could  not  hear  each  other's. 

"It's  only  good  night  I'm  saying." 

And  she,  too,  said  only  "Good  night,"  as  she  passed  out  of 
his  tent. 

Now  it  was  May,  and  heavy  rains  came  upon  Deny  as  he 
rode  about  his  work  He  would  return  at  three  or  four  o'clock, 
for  she  was  forever  telling  him  to  be  careful  of  his  health.  She 
was  solicitous  for  his  comfort,  housewifely. 

"Then  you  are  caring  if  I'm  ill  or  well?"  was  another  speech 
that  woke,  or  shook,  them  both,  since  they  were  not  only  the 
words  he  spoke,  but  those  his  eyes  spoke,  that  carried  his 
meaning. 

"You're  telling  me  to  take  care  of  myself." 

"And  who  else  have  I  got  belonging  to  me?" 

"Is  it  belonging  to  me  you  are?"  he  answered,  and  for  once 
he  laid  a  gentle  arm  about  her  shoulders. 

The  sudden  stricken  look  in  the  eyes  raised  to  him,  mournful 
once  again,  was  the  real  answer: 

"It's  me  that's  not  belonging  to  myself  just  now,  Deny," 
she  said.  The  shame  flushed  in  her  cheeks,  and  the  words 
were  low  and  hurried. 

"I  can  wait."     But  the  flush  was  on  his,  too. 

She  ran  away  from  him  that  time.  Waiting  was  the  task  he 
set  himself,  and  the  conditions  now  made  it  easier. 

Berry's  recovery  from  the  time  that  Rosaleen  had  come  to 
him  had  been  sufficiently  steady  to  make  it  unnecessary  to  send 
for  Brother  Whippell.  But  one  day,  when  she  was  shopping 
in  the  market  street,  she  heard  a  huge  rumble,  and  saw  a  farm- 
wagon,  with  three  benches  across  it,  drawn  by  two  small  Siamese 
ponies.  This  was  the  missionary  family  coming  to  call.  They 
hailed  her,  and  made  themselves  known,  they  were  not  going 
to  be  deterred  from  their  call  by  the  mere  accident  of  her  being  out. 

"I  want  to  see  my  patient,  Lady  Ranmore,"  Brother  Ben 

168 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Whippell  began.  "You'll  be  going  along  home,  I  do  think, 
and  you'll  just  let  us  hoist  you  inside,  and  come  along  with  us." 
His  Americanism  was  very  marked,  but  the  nasal  quality  of  the 
accent  nothwitstanding,  Rosaleen  found  the  voice  agreeable. 
It  was  so  human  and  friendly,  there  seemed  to  be  an  immediate 
friendship  established  between  them.  He  helped  her  into  the 
cart  dextrously  and  cleverly.  Brother  Ben,  who,  by  the  way, 
was  a  fully  qualified  medical  man,  in  addition  to  being  a  Prim- 
itive Methodist  preacher,  had  a  shaggy,  unkempt,  straggling 
head  of  red  hair,  and  keen  gray  eyes.  His  hands  were  sinewy, 
small  and  capable.  He  wore  a  white,  or  clerical,  tie  with  his 
khaki-colored  linen  clothes,  otherwise  there  was  nothing  to 
indicate  his  dual  profession.  A  cloth  cap,  with  a  flap  that  hung 
down  behind  to  protect  his  neck  from  the  sun,  completed  his 
costume.  His  placid  wife  was  obviously  from  the  South;  her 
slurred  burr  contrasted  with  his  nasal  tongue.  She  was  stout, 
and  made  room  for  Rosaleen  with  difficulty. 

"I  ought  to  have  been  over  before,"  she  said,  "but  there  is 
so  much  to  do." 

"And  as  Mama  doesn't  do  any  of  it,  it  keeps  her  busy," 
Aline  broke  in. 

Having  seen  Aline,  it  was  not  difficult  to  account  for  Mr. 
Mitchison's  infatuation  She  had  her  mother's  dark  eyes,  and 
there  was  enough  of  her  father's  coloring  in  the  brown  tints 
of  her  hair  to  make  the  word  Venetian  appropriate.  She  was 
slender  of  build,  graceful  of  movement,  alert,  and  extraordinarily 
voluble.  Rosaleen  heard  more  about  Siam,  and,  incidentally, 
more  about  Aline  Whippell,  in  that  half  hour's  drive  than  she 
had  learned  of  the  country  in  four  months,  or  of  any  human 
being  in  a  lifetime  of  acquaintance. 

"My,  you  should  have  seen  me!"  or  "My,  you  should  have 
heard  me!"  prefaced  a  dozen  incidents  in  which  it  seemed  she 
was  forever  in  the  foreground. 

"Why,  if  that  ain't  Ranmore  himself!"  Brother  Whippell 
said  as  they  approached  the  sola  on  their  strange  vehicle,  and 
saw  Deny  and  Mr.  Mitchison  on  the  road.  Derry  had  on  a 
white  linen  suit,  but  poor  Mitchison  was  straight  from  the 

169 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

river.  He  wore  his  under-vest  and  a  sarong,  which  is  a  native 
garment,  something  between  a  petticoat  and  a  kilt.  He  made 
as  if  to  hide  himself  behind  Deny,  but  the  Americans  hailed 
him  as  if  they  noted  nothing  unusual,  and  presently  the  two 
men,  too,  were  being  hauled  into  the  farm-cart.  Aline  con- 
tinued talking,  and  Mr.  Mitchison,  in  the  intervals  of  putting 
down  his  sarong  and  apologizing  for  it,  played  a  sort  of  wonder- 
ing chorus  to  her  monologue.  She  rallied  him,  but  seemed 
not  averse  to  his  attentions.  When  they  arrived  at  the  sala 
they  all  trooped  in,  and  took  seats  on  provision-boxes.  They 
were  offered  cocoanut  milk  and  water. 

"Waal,  I'm  glad  you  took  my  advice,  young  man,"  said 
Brother  Ben  to  Deny.  "I've  put  your  husband  on  the  teetotal 
ticket  for  so  long  as  he  is  up  here,  Lady  Ranmore.  And  mind 
you  keep  him  to  it,  that  head  of  his  don't  want  anything  more 
to  carry  just  now." 

"Brother  Benjamin  is  all  for  total  abstention,"  drawled 
Rachel. 

"Papa  don't  believe  in  compromises." 

"Ah!  curious  thing,  now  you  remind  me,"  said  Mitchison. 
"I  never  met  but  two  sorts  of  Americans,  those  who  drank 
like  fish,  and  the  iced-water  brigade." 

"Is  that  so,  now?  Then  I  may  take  it  from  you  that  the 
American  that  travels  in  Europe  is  either  a  teetotaller  or  a 
drunkard?" 

"They  are  the  only  sort  I  have  met." 

"I  shouldn't  take  Mr.  Mitchison  too  seriously,  Papa." 

But  "Papa"  took  everything  seriously,  and  pursued  the 
subject.  It  was  a  burning  one  with  him.  He  spoke  with  great 
feeling,  he  was  given  to  free  speech,  but  had  little  chance,  as  he 
would  say,  quietly,  "when  Aline  was  around."  Evidently 
quite  proud  of  her  conversational  powers,  he  himself  was  most 
interesting  about  his  missionary  work,  and,  when  he  talked  of 
the  national  religion  and  of  Buddhism,  of  what  he  was  "out  to 
fight,"  he  spoke  not  only  like  an  evangelist,  but  like  a  man  of 
feeling.  He  made  the  relation  of  his  spiritual  campaign  a  real 
and  vivid  thing.  His  heart  was  in  his  work. 

170 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

The  weather  helped  them  out  when  other  subjects  were 
exhausted.  Aline  asked  Rosaleen  if  she  rode,  and  said  riding 
astride  was  the  only  way  with  the  Siamese  ponies.  She  offered 
to  make  Rosaleen  a  pair  of  khaki  trousers,  like  her  own.  Brother 
Ben  looked  up  quickly,  and  quite  authoritatively,  without  any 
ceremony,  interposed. 

"You'd  better  not  ride  at  all  just  now,"  and  excused  his 
daughter's  exclamation  by  adding,  "she  don't  know  everything, 
Aline  here,"  and  openly  winked  at  Rosaleen. 

Their  plans  were  discussed,  and  again  Brother  Ben  put  in  a 
warning  word,  when  he  heard  that  in  a  fortnight  they  were  going 
up  further;  camp  was  to  be  struck  for  Wat  Poh  Pra.  Mr. 
Mitchison  was  not  accompanying  them,  for  the  work  that  led 
Derry  afield  was  not  work  in  which  Mr.  Mitchison  could  even 
pretend  to  assist.  Brother  Ben  knew  the  country  well. 

"You  can  get  to  the  sea  in  two  hours  from  Wat  Poh  Pra. 
And  that's  the  vurry  best  thing  you  can  do  with  your  wife. 
Send  her  to  the  mission-house  there.  They'll  look  after  her, 
and  the  sea  breezes  will  put  color  in  her  cheeks." 

"You  don't  think  my  wife  is  looking  pulled  down?"  Derry 
asked  anxiously.  He  liked  the  words  on  his  lips.  He  said 
again,  "My  wife  has  been  nursing  me  too  well.  I've  been  an 
impatient  patient,  doctor." 

"I'm  all  right,  Derry,  I'm  all  right!"  She  flushed  quite 
deeply.  "Now  be  telling  us  more  about  the  people  and  the 
priests,  Mr.  Whippell." 

"Papa  likes  to  be  called  'Brother,'"  Aline  put  in  slyly. 

"And  it's  brothers  we  all  are,"  Derry  put  in  promptly,  "we 
Westerners  out  here." 

"Waal,  I  shouldn't  call  myself  a  Westerner,"  Brother  Ben 
objected. 

They  stayed  quite  a  long  time,  right  into  the  cool  of  the  evening. 
Rosaleen  found  herself  liking  always  more  definitely  the  doctor's 
nasal  accents,  and  quaint  turns  of  expression  He  gave  an 
impression  of  solid  and  reliable  strength.  Afterward,  when  she 
knew  him  better,  and  had  heard  his  history,  she  found  her  first 
impression  confirmed  He  was  the  one  of  the  party  that  inter- 

171 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

ested  her  most.  Certainly  it  was  to  Brother  Whippell's  sense 
and  promptitude  that  Deny  owed  being  again  in  health.  Mrs. 
Whippell  was  more  obese  than  individual,  and  Aline  too  much 
interested  in  herself  to  leave  anyone  else  room  for  the  theme. 

"I  came  out  here  with  Mama  and  Papa  because  I  thought  it 
would  be  a  change  from  school-teaching.  There  ain't  hardly 
a  soul  for  me  to  speak  to  up  in  Missionary  Land.  You  see,  I'm 
intellectual,  and  better  read  than  most.  There's  Schopenhauer, 
now,  there's  hardly  a  book  of  his  I  ain't  read.  You'd  be  surprised. 
And  these  missionaries,  why,  they  never  even  heard  tell  of  him. 
And  I  can  play  the  piano.  Mama  says  it  makes  her  want  to 
cry.  You  must  come  and  stay  with  us  one  while,  Lady  Ranmore, 
and  just  hear  me.  We  ain't  got  many  lords'  wives  around. 
Here's  Mr.  Mitchison,  why,  his  sister  is  a  baronet's  wife,  but 
she's  in  England.  Didn't  you  say  she  was  a  baronet's  wife?" 

"Ah — well — did  I?  Not  exactly,  you  know.  She  married" 
— he  turned  to  Deny  as  if  he  alone  would  understand — "the 
Master  of  Fairbank." 

It  was  difficult  to  explain  the  status  of  a  Scotch  laird  to  an 
American  girl,  but  Deny  accomplished  it.  It  was  easy  to  see 
that  Augustus  had  been  exploiting  his  connections  with  which 
to  dazzle  her,  and  that  he  had  not  been  wholly  unsuccessful. 

At  leaving,  Brother  Ben  said  again: 

"  Don't  you  hesitate  if  you  want  to  get  away  from  that  camp  up 
at  Wat  Poh  Pra.  They  will  take  you  in  any  time  at  the  Mission- 
aries'," he  said  to  Rosaleen.  His  manner  gave  her  a  sense  of 
comfort,  a  sense  of  security,  too,  and  this  she  knew  was  what 
he  meant  to  convey.  She  had  been  living  in  the  present. 

And  live  in  the  present  she  continued  to  do  until  two  weeks 
later,  when  they  struck  camp. 

Certainly  the  Americans  had  quickened  the  Ranmores' 
curiosity  in  their  surroundings.  Neither  Derry  nor  Rosaleen 
had  explored  the  neighborhood,  and  their  interest  in  Buddhism 
was  less  than  elementary.  The  priests  had  followed  them  some- 
times to  the  riverside,  but  the  priests  were  no  less  a  part  of  the 
landscape  than  the  native  women,  with  their  burden  of  double 
panniers,  one  containing  provisions  and  the  other  a  baby.  In 

172 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

the  market  street  Rosaleen  had  seen  the  men  from  Lao,  with 
their  quaint  costumes  of  tightly  fitting  black  jerseys,  buttoned 
with  elaborate  native  buttons  right  up  to  the  throat,  their  short 
trousers  and  bare  legs;  the  Lao  women  in  their  striped  petticoats 
of  blue  and  yellow.  Brother  Ben  told  her  that  when  the  Lao 
young  couples  contemplated  matrimony  the  ceremony  of  betrothal 
consisted  in  their  sitting  in  company  under  the  supervising  eyes  of 
both  families  and  many  friends,  watching  while  the  lover  solemnly 
sewed  up  his  fianceVs  petticoat. 

Buddhism  was  the  religion  of  the  country,  and  all  the  many 
Christian  missionaries  from  many  lands  had  made  no  appreciable 
difference  to  it. 

The  Siamese  New  Year  fell  at  the  end  of  March,  just  before 
they  struck  camp,  and  that  was  a  very  festival  of  Buddha. 
Their  newly  awakened  interest  led  them  to  many  an  excursion. 
Less  than  two  miles  from  Petchaburi  were  the  caves,  where  in 
coolness  and  darkness  many  hundreds  of  presentments  of  the 
prophet  lie  in  their  separate  shrines,  guarded  outside  by  the 
wonderful  sleeping  Buddha,  nearly  135  feet  long,  and  more 
than  proportionately  broad.  He  lies  on  his  side  within  sight 
of  the  caves,  one  gilt  arm  under  an  enormous  head,  covered 
with  spikes  representing  hair,  and  a  golden  flame,  like  an  aureole. 
All  his  toes  are  joined  together,  and  they  are  all  the  same  length. 
This  worshipful  monster  has  a  beautiful  mouth,  like  a  Cupid's 
bow,  and  his  half-closed  eyes  are  mother-of-pearl. 

The  caves  themselves  were  pleasant  after  the  heat;  cool  and 
dark.  Every  niche  had  its  gilded  Buddha,  and  no  Buddha  on 
the  New  Year  but  had  its  tribute  of  burning  joss-stick  This 
day  the  natives  were  clambering  up  the  rocks  in  shoals,  sprinkling 
their  favored  gods  with  scent!  The  band  played,  and  there 
were  Siamese  dances,  as  at  Bangkok,  with  play  of  wrists,  elbows 
and  head.  The  music  of  the  band  is  a  drone.  Sometimes  the 
pipers  joined  in  the  dance  with  each  other,  back  to  back,  twisting 
their  limbs.  The  three  days'  festival  of  the  New  Year,  of  the 
Buddhist  New  Year,  is  one  of  the  public  holidays  when  the 
natives  are  allowed  to  gamble.  And  they  take  full  advantage 
of  the  permission,  sitting  at  the  games  with  solemn,  inscrutable 
12  173 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

faces,  morning,  afternoon,  and  night.  They  would  do  no  work 
these  three  days.  Even  Berry's  head  coolie,  and  Rosaleen's 
washerwoman,  temporarily  abandoned  their  duties. 

Other  Buddhist  festivals  interested  them,  one  occurring 
shortly  after  the  New  Year.  The  ceremonies  took  place  in 
Ratburi,  but  Deny  managed  to  get  Rosaleen  into  the  town. 
The  occasion  was  the  return  of  a  Buddha  who  had  been  regilded! 
Two  bands  went  out  to  welcome  him,  and  a  long  procession. 
A  fair  followed,  with  more  music  and  dancing,  and  stalls  or 
booths  full  of  dreadful  penny  toys  and  bunches  of  beads,  hailing 
probably  f  om  Birmingham.  A  great  wheel  of  bamboo  was 
made  in  the  Buddha's  honor,  bearing  four  hammocks.  It  was 
worked  by  hand,  and  everyone  seemed  to  ride  in  it,  always  in 
honor  of  the  regilded  Buddha. 

To  each  country  its  religion,  but  this  of  Buddhism,  the  further 
they  penetrated  its  mysteries  the  stranger  it  seemed.  They 
were  both  of  them  glad  of  anything  that  took  their  thoughts 
from  themselves  just  now,  subconsciously  they  both  knew  it 
was  through  a  waiting  time  they  were  passing.  They  were 
prepared  to  regard  any  religion  with  respect,  and  every  supersti- 
tion, for  this  is  a  necessity  with  Irish  Protestants,  if  they  are  to 
live  in  peace  with  their  Catholic  countrymen.  But  when 
Derry's  tent  blew  down  in  the  night,  and  one  of  the  very  Buddhas 
who  had  been  joss-sticked  and  scented  in  the  day  was  carried 
out  to  act  as  a  weight,  the  limit  of  irreverence  seemed  to  have 
been  reached.  Certainly  the  workman  saluted  the  god  before 
tying  him  up,  but  this  was  the  only  apology  for  using  him  as 
a  tent-peg. 

The  missionary  service  they  attended  together,  the  last  day 
they  spent  at  Petchaburi,  brought  home  to  them  the  contrast  of 
the  story  that  had  moved  the  world. 

It  was  held  at  a  little  village  behind  the  hills.  They  drove 
there  in  the  moonlight,  a  long,  silent  drive  on  a  lonely,  unpeopled 
road.  Suddenly,  and,  as  it  seemed,  from  nowhere  at  all,  they 
were  among  a  crowd  of  natives,  silent  natives,  all  converging  to 
one  point,  a  large  shed  that  had  been  erected;  before  the  wide 
door,  or  opening,  was  hung  a  white  sheet.  The  little  brown 

174 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

people  squatted  quietly  down  before  the  sheet  in  row  upon  silent 
row. 

Rosaleen  saw  Brother  Benjamin,  and  one  or  two  other  dark- 
coated  men,  lift  up  the  sheet  and  pass  into  the  tent.  Presently, 
against  the  moonlight,  half  shadowy  and  wholly  impressive, 
she  saw  thrown  upon  the  white  sheet,  in  all  its  simplicity,  the 
first  scene  in  the  stable  at  Bethlehem.  She  saw  the  animals 
feeding  at  the  manger,  patient,  bovine,  unregarding.  She 
saw  the  Virgin  Mother,  the  babe  in  her  arms  with  the  aureole 
of  light,  the  wise  men  from  the  East  kneeling  before  it  in 
adoration. 

One  of  the  missionaries  was  telling  the  story  in  Siamese. 
Picture  followed  picture.  Here  was  the  flight  into  Egypt; 
steadily  the  voice  explained  it.  It  was  gone,  and  here  was  Jesus, 
the  Child,  rebuking  the  elders  in  the  Temple,  the  mother 
seeking  her  Son.  The  answer,  "Wist  ye  not  that  I  must  be 
about  My  Father's  business?"  sounded  curiously  in  its  foreign 
expression.  The  panorama  of  the  miracles  culminated  in  the 
raising  of  Lazarus  from  the  dead.  Now  came  the  triumphant 
entry  into  Jerusalem,  and  then  the  Last  Supper.  Here  was 
Gethsemane,  with  its  sleeping  disciples,  unconscious  of  that 
long  hour  of  agonized  prayer  .  .  .  the  English  voice  broke 
a  little  as  it  narrated  it.  The  next  picture  was  the  trial  before 
Pontius  Pilate.  One  saw,  one  almost  heard,  the  gibes  and 
jeers  of  the  ribald  jailers  over  the  mock  crown  of  thorns.  Then 
there  was  the  weary  bearing  of  the  cross  which  was  to  become 
the  symbol  through  countless  ages.  Now  there  were  sounds 
from  that  hushed  row  of  silent  people,  a  wailing  sound  that 
was  like  an  Irish  keen,  for  the  agony  of  the  Crucifixion  was 
before  them.  Above  the  low  wail  rose  those  last  words:  "Father, 
forgive  them,  they  know  not  what  they  do." 

It  was  the  story  that  had  moved  the  world.  It  seemed 
almost  new,  and  strangely  vivid  to  Deny  and  Rosaleen  as  they 
heard  it  in  those  strange  surroundings;  and  it  gave  them  some 
rush  or  tide  of  feeling  that  brought  them  closer  to  each  other. 
In  the  moonlight  Deny  could  see  the  girl 's  eyes  were  wet. 

They  drove  back  silently  to  the  camp.  The  moon  was 

175 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

steady  above  the  trees,  but  the  fireflies  danced  like  will-of-the- 

wisps  among  the  leaves  and  branches. 

"You're  crying,"  he  whispered.     His  arm  went  about  her. 

"I  can't  bear  you  should  cry." 

uBut  for  you,  what  should  I  have  ever  done  but  cry?" 
"We'll  be  happy  some  day  together  .    .    .  say  you  think 

so,  too.     It's  a  waiting  time  we're  passing  through." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THEY  struck  camp  the  next  day  for  the  move  to  Wat 
Poh  Pra.  They  traveled  by  ox-cart,  and  the  ground 
was  soft  from  the  heavy  rain.  The  wheels  sank  inches 
deep,  and  the  wretched  animals  strained  again  and  again  to 
move  them.  The  coolies  yelled  and  shouted  and  pushed. 
They  would  have  rained  blows,  but  neither  Rosaleen  nor 
Derry  would  permit  that.  Deny  got  out  and  helped  to  push. 
Rosaleen,  too,  insisted  on  walking  some  parts  of  the  way.  But 
the  tents  and  the  luggage  were  in  the  ox-cart,  and  the  animals 
were  inferior  to  the  Kaffir  variety,  and  much  smaller.  Derry 
knew,  when  it  was  too  late,  that  he  ought  to  have  had  a  team 
of  four  instead  of  two. 

It  was  a  tedious  affair,  but  they  got  to  their  destination  at 
last.  Rosaleen  made  light  of  her  fatigue,  Derry  was  not  con- 
scious of  feeling  any,  he  was  so  relieved  to  have  arrived. 

The  primitive  domestic  machinery  that  had  worked  so  well 
at  Petchaburi  broke  down  completely  at  Wat  Poh  Pra.  At 
Petchaburi  the  coolies  had  done  their  work,  except  on  the 
occasion  of  the  gambling  interregnum,  with  regularity  and 
sufficient  intelligence — anyway,  with  apparent  interest.  The 
Chinese  cook  could  provide  a  meal  out  of  any  material  to  his 
hand,  there  was  a  choice  of  washerwomen,  and  in  any  little 
thing  that  Rosaleen  was  bent  upon  doing  herself,  for  Derry 's 
comfort,  she  had  the  sympathetic  assistance  of  the  head  coolie. 
There  seemed  such  a  number  and  variety  of  natives  that  they 
had  hardly  taken  it  seriously  when,  on  the  eve  of  their  departure 
for  Petchaburi,  the  Chinese  cook  refused  to  stir,  and  Rosaleen 's 
little  Siamese  maid,  who  had  come  all  the  way  from  Bangkok 
with  her,  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  She  had  run  away  with 
Mr.  Mitchison's  head  boy.  They  had  been  amused  at  the 
romande.  Rosaleen  said  she  had  no  call  for  a  maid,  and  really 
it  was  little  the  girl  had  done  for  her. 

177 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

The  wash-tub  is  perhaps  the  most  prominent  feature  of 
Siamese  housekeeping.  Clothes  are  changed  daily,  or  twice 
daily;  everything  finds  its  way  quickly  to  the  wash-tub.  The 
absence  of  a  maid  was  amusing,  the  desertion  of  the  cook  was 
bearable,  but  the  difficulty  of  finding  a  washerwoman  was 
insupportable.  They  were  further  from  the  river  here,  and 
the  air  seemed  alive  with  heat  and  insect  life.  The  new  sala 
was  half  the  size  of  the  last  one.  They  had  hardly  been  a  week 
at  Wah  Poh  Pra  when  they  found  there  was  a  difficulty  in 
obtaining  provisions.  Chickens  were  to  be  had,  tough  and 
stringy,  and  mangoes,  but  there  seemed  little  else.  There 
should  have  been  eggs,  but  the  chickens  failed  of  their  duty. 
Each  chicken  they  ate  might,  they  thought,  have  been  the  one 
that  would  have  laid  had  her  life  been  spared!  They  tried  to 
make  light  of  their  inconveniences.  This  was  the  time  when 
Rosaleen  showed  her  quality.  She  cooked  and  sewed,  and 
even  washed!  They  had  taught  her  to  iron  in  the  convent; 
there  she  had  ironed  her  own  needlework,  and  the  fine  lace  and 
embroideries  that  had  been  sent  to  the  convent  to  be  mended. 
Now  she  utilized  her  knowledge.  Derry  sent  one  of  the  coolies 
back  to  Petchaburi,  and  one  of  them  up  to  Ratburi,  with  orders 
to  find  a  washerwoman  at  all  costs.  But  meanwhile  Rosaleen 
could  not  bear  to  see  him  with  his  linen  coats  so  rumpled,  and, 
oblivious  of  the  heat,  and  of  the  curiosity  of  the  natives,  who 
climbed  the  window  to  see  her  do  it,  she  set  to  work  to  iron 
them  out  for  him.  This  was  while  Derry  was  afield,  at  the 
work  he  had  been  sent  here  to  do.  Once,  when  he  arrived 
home,  he  found  her  very  white  and  shaken  on  the  doorstep. 
She  did  not  tell  him  that  she  had  fainted  at  her  occupation  and 
been  carried  out  here.  She  told  him  that  she  had  found  a 
snake  in  her  sleeping-tent.  It  was  quite  true,  and  it  excused 
and  explained  her  faintness.  He  did  not  know  that  it  had  not 
disturbed  her  in  the  least,  and  that  it  was  the  previous  day 
the  incident  occurred.  The  snake  had  been  killed  by  one  of 
the  boys;  it  was  a  very  harmless  variety.  Derry,  who  had 
been  alarmed  at  her  pallor,  found  it  quite  simply  explained  by 
the  story  of  the  snake.  He  was  sorry  for  the  fright  she  had  had, 

178 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

he  began  to  wonder  if  he  had  done  rightly  to  bring  her  so  far,  to 
expose  her  to  all  these  hardships.  She  would  not  let  him  doubt, 
she  made  light  of  all  of  them. 

But  they  were  hardships,  almost  unendurable  for  white 
people. 

Derry  was  at  work,  he  could  take  exercise,  walking,  and  on 
his  ponies.  There  was  hardly  a  day  when  he  did  not  manage 
a  swim,  although  they  were  too  far  from  the  river  for  those 
evening  walks  that  had  formed  the  pleasant  termination  to  so 
many  of  the  Petchaburi  evenings.  Rosaleen  had  nothing  but 
the  heat  of  the  sala  and  the  sleeping-tent,  the  daily  struggle  to 
get  the  washing  and  ironing  done,  and  as  much  cooking  as 
was  possible.  All  her  days  were  lived  that  Derry  might  miss 
nothing,  want  nothing.  She  worked  at  stove  and  ironing- 
board  as  none  but  an  acclimatized  native  could  have  worked 
under  the  conditions  to  which  she  was  exposed. 

She  had  fainted  the  first  day  she  tried  the  ironing;  the  ten- 
dency to  faintness  recurred,  and  kept  her  lethargic  and  with  a 
feeling  of  ever-impending  illness.  She  wished  sometimes, 
vaguely,  that  Brother  Ben  Whippell  was  within  call;  but  she 
wished  more  definitely  than  anything  else  that  Derry  should 
notice  nothing  of  her  state  of  health,  and  miss  nothing  that  she 
could  do  for  him.  She  made  really  heroic  efforts  to  conceal 
how  it  was  with  her.  In  another  month  they  were  to  go  back 
to  Bangkok.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  hold  out  for 
another  month.  She  knew  she  ought  to  be  able  to,  her  knowl- 
edge had  taken  her  as  far  as  that.  It  did  not  strike  her  that  the 
exertion  she  was  taking  might  interfere  with  these  calcula- 
tions. 

They  managed  a  little  better  with  the  foraging  presently, 
when  the  news  of  their  arrival  spread  about.  Fish  was  now 
to  be  had,  vegetables  and  fruit  and  other  than  the  mangoes,  small 
peas,  for  instance,  peas  that  are  cooked  and  eaten  with  their 
pods,  and  there  was  sweet  corn.  There  was  a  market,  after  all, 
although  it  was  some  way  off.  And  now  the  new  coolies  began 
to  wake  up  to  what  was  needed.  Rosaleen  might  have  held 
out  a  little  longer,  it  was  a  man's  spirit  that  was  growing  in  her 

179 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

feminine  body,  if  Derry  had  not  expressed  a  desire  for  bread. 
It  was  a  very  idle  wish,  he  was  in  good  health  again,  and  grow- 
ing used  to  the  life;  it  pressed  so  much  less  hardly  upon  him 
than  upon  her.  He  said  it  was  a  rest-cure  he  was  having.  The 
absence  of  white  people,  white  faces,  that  she  found  almost  a 
nightmare,  did  not  affect  him  at  all.  No  hideous  fear  and 
faintness  haunted  his  waking  hours. 

In  the  convent  Rosaleen  had  also  learned  to  make  bread. 
The  coolie  brought  the  material  she  ordered  the  next  time 
he  went  to  market,  the  very  day  after  Derry  had  expressed 
his  idle  wish.  The  cooking  apparatus,  a  cauldron  on  three 
legs,  was  new  to  her  and  difficult  to  manage,  and  her  first  day 's 
baking  was  not  a  success.  But  Derry  was  so  proud  that  she  had 
made  the  experiment — what  was  not  burnt  was  sodden  and  raw, 
yet  he  insisted  on  eating  it — that  she  was  fain  to  try  again. 
His  praise  was  sweet  to  her,  and  he  was  lavish  with  it.  The 
second  attempt  was  more  successful.  That  several  times, 
while  she  was  kneading,  a  curious  trembling  came  upon  her 
suddenly,  that  twice  or  three  times  during  the  baking  there 
was  a  return  of  faintness,  did  not  count  against  the  pleasure  of 
hearing  he  had  never  tasted  such  bread  in  his  life.  He  ate 
half  a  loaf  with  his  evening  meal,  washed  down  with  cocoanut- 
juice.  Exhausted  as  she  was,  and  fearful  beyond  consecutive 
thought  or  expression,  seeing  Derry  eat  his  bread  brought 
fresh  life  and  courage  to  her. 

If  only  the  rain  would  come,  or  the  nights  grow  less  hot; 
if  only  she  could  sleep,  or  stand  up  at  her  work  without  the 
sola  growing  dark  and  swaying!  She  was  naturally  strong, 
she  held  up  longer  than  seemed  possible.  The  change  in  her 
came  gradually,  and  Derry,  seeing  her  many  times  a  day,  was 
less  likely  to  notice  it  than  a  newcomer.  Her  face  grew  preter- 
natunally  thin,  and  her  eyes  sunken;  there  was  no  color  in  her 
thin  lips,  and  it  was  only  when  Derry  was  by  that  she  could 
hide  her  languor,  not  very  well  even  then. 

What  instinct,  or  broad  humanity,  brought  Brother  Ben 
Whippell  riding  into  camp  one  day  she  never  knew.  Derry 
was  afield;  she  had  tried  and  tried  to  get  through  with  her 

180 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

bread-making.  Now  she  was  lying  on  the  ground,  out  here 
in  the  hot  air,  she  had  one  of  her  rare  fits  of  overwhelming 
physical  depression.  She  could  not  go  on,  she  did  not  care 
what  became  of  her.  It  was  homesickness  for  Ireland's  green 
lush  grass  that  she  had,  it  was  deadly  fear  of  sickness,  it  was 
pain  in  her  head,  and  heat  and  swelling  in  her  useless  hands 
and  feet. 

Ben  rode  up,  the  first  thing  she  saw  was  his  shaggy  red  beard. 
The  nasal  accent  fell  on  her  ears  like  music. 

"Anybody  in?"  He  saw  her  almost  as  soon  as  she  saw  him, 
and  was  off  the  pony  and  by  her  side. 

"Well,  now,  just  to  think  .  .  .  !"  For,  at  sight  of  him, 
all  at  once,  her  self-control  seemed  to  leave  her,  and  her  courage. 
She  just  burst  out  crying,  and,  when  he  took  her  hands  from 
her  face  to  look  at  her,  she  went  on  crying  uncontrollably. 

"There  now,  there  now!"  he  soothed  her.  "You  didn't 
expect  me  riding  along  in  this  way.  It  ain't  no  harm  crying; 
just  cry  away." 

He  seemed  to  know  where  everything  was  to  be  found.  He 
got  a  pillow  from  her  sleeping- tent,  and  put  it  under  her  head, 
for  the  moment  she  was  beyond  effort.  His  fingers  were  on 
her  pulse. 

"Lonesome?"  he  asked.  She  began  to  recover  herself 
presently,  and  sat  up. 

"It's  foolish  you're  thinking  me?" 

"Now,  what  put  that  into  your  head?" 

"It's  so  ...  so  hot!"  The  weak  tears  could  not  be 
restrained.  He  did  not  try  to  check  them,  but  went  on  talking 
as  if  he  noticed  nothing.  He  told  her  whence  he  had  ridden, 
of  the  sea,  and  the  palms  that  grew  close  to  the  place,  and  the 
white  mission-house  with  the  verandah.  The  awful  sense  of 
isolation  and  loneliness  passed  away  from  her  a  little  as  he 
was  speaking.  There  were  cool  breezes  somewhere. 

"I'll  be  getting  me  courage  back  presently."  And  now 
she  smiled  faintly  at  him  through  her  tears.  They  had  been 
friends  from  the  first,  these  two,  although  they  had  spoken  so 
little  together. 

181 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Waal,  I  guess  you've  got  some  things  to  tell  me." 

"Ah!  doctor,  an'  can  you  keep  away  the  faintness?" 

He  got  it  all  out  from  her  gradually — the  weakness  and  the 
trembling,  the  fainting  and  her  fears. 

"Make  me  well  enough  to  go  on  just  this  one  bad  month 
we're  here.  It's  missing  me  he'd  be;  and  him  that  has  to 
work  in  it  all." 

He  could  see  it  was  only  of  Deny  she  was  thinking,  and 
Derry's  need  of  her.  He  did  not  tell  her  she  had  come  to  the 
end  of  her  strength,  there  was  time  enough  for  that.  But 
what  he  saw  made  him  remember.  This  was  a  common  thing, 
this  sacrifice  of  one  human  being  to  another.  He  had  made 
his  offering  on  the  altar  many  years  ago,  he  knew  all  about 
sacrifice,  and  the  strength  it  spent,  and  gave. 

"How  is  Derry?"  he  asked.  "Any  more  headache?  That's 
a  fine  man  of  yours,  Lady  Ranmore." 

"Ah,  and  he  is  that!" 

He  knew  the  way  to  her  confidence,  and  to  her  heart.  He 
talked  a  little  of  Derry,  and  Derry's  illness.  By  the  time  Deny 
himself  came  home,  vociferous  in  his  welcome,  Ben  Whippell 
knew  all  that  he  needed. 

"You  wait  until  I  get  through  with  my  bath,"  Derry  said, 
after  his  first  burst  of  greeting.  "We'll  keep  him  to  dinner, 
Rosaleen;  he  must  taste  that  bread  of  yours.  I  hope  you've 
got  plenty  of  it,  by  the  way.  It  will  get  the  chicken  down, 
and  the  mangoes.  There's  fish  coming,  unless  it's  here.  I 
sent  it  on,  just  out  of  the  river  it  is,  lying  on  its  belly  in  the 
basket,  with  its  eyes  turned  up.  I  don't  know  the  name  of  it, 
but  it  will  taste  of  the  water  perhaps.  And  that's  what  we're 
all  wanting.  It's  rain,  doctor,  I  wish  you'd  brought  with 
you." 

Deny 's  bath  was  something  new  in  ablutions,  he  had  invented 
it  himself.  He  stood  outside  his  tent,  talking  all  the  time,  just 
as  he  had  come  in  from  riding,  fully  dressed,  in  his  thin  white 
vest  and  linen  trousers,  but  with  his  hat  off.  He  was  a  fine 
figure  of  a  man  beside  the  coolies,  not  one  of  them  reaching 
higher  than  his  shoulder  He  had  grown  lean,  and  while, 

182 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

under  his  directions,  the  men  swashed  bucket  after  bucket  of 
cold  water  at,  and  over,  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  horse,  and  this 
his  grooming,  one  saw  beneath  the  wet  and  clinging  vest  the 
muscular  deep  chest,  the  sinews  of  the  arms,  the  long  flank. 

"It's  my  own  idea;  you  get  the  freshness  of  the  water  when 
it's  flung  at  you  like  this.  Will  you  have  one,  doctor ?  There's 
time  before  dinner.  And  I  can  lend  you  a  change  of  clothes." 

But  Brother  Ben  declined.  He  was  quite  ready  to  stay  and 
dine  with  them,  having  come  over  for  that  purpose,  in  fact. 
His  instinct  had  led  him  right.  They  were  young  things,  not 
fit  to  look  after  themselves,  far  less  each  other.  He  would 
have  to  make  an  opportunity  to  see  Deny  alone.  She  had 
begged  him  not  to  tell  Deny  there  was  anything  amiss.  But 
the  tact  that  comes  from  the  heart  is  less  likely  to  err  than  the 
tact  that  comes  from  the  head,  and  Brother  Ben  Whippell  had 
both.  He  would  retain  Rosaleen's  confidence,  and  he  would 
not  unduly  alarm  Derry.  But  he  knew  the  girl  was  very  near 
the  end  of  her  endurance;  there  is  a  moment  when  the  fretted 
string  gives  way.  Where  were  Derry 's  eyes  what  he  had  not 
seen?  The  answer  to  that  was  easy.  Derry's  eyes  were 
blinded  by  his  admiration. 

During  dinner  Ben  heard  all  about  the  bread  and  the  ironing, 
and  the  fine  manager  she  was.  And  he  saw  the  lines  go  out  of 
the  white,  tired  face,  and  the  softening  that  came  into  the 
sunken  eyes.  This  was  her  hour;  it  was  for  this  she  worked. 

"It's  Derry  that's  making  the  fuss  about  the  little  I  do," 
she  said.  "You'll  tell  him  it's  not  much  for  a  girl  to  be  able 
to  cook." 

"Waal,"  said  Ben,  holding  up  the  bread,  "I  ain't  going  to 
tell  him  anything  against  this.  We've  nothing  better  than  this 
up  yonder." 

"And  it's  herself  that  made  it  all,"  Derry  began  again. 

It  was  after  dinner,  when  the  heat  grew  more  bearable,  that 
Ben  suggested  Derry  should  ride  with  him  a  little  of  his  way. 
Rosaleen  gave  a  quick  suspicious  look  at  the  doctor,  and  he 
nodded  his  reassurance.  He  would  tell  Derry  nothing.  She 
was  feeling  ever  so  much  better  to-night,  there  was  no  need  to 

183 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

say  anything.     She  had  let  herself  get  low  and  frightened,  it 
was  the  solitude,  and  all  those  brown  faces. 

"You'll  not  be  saying  anything  to  Deny?"  she  said  to  Ben  the 
moment  Derry  had  gone  into  his  tent  to  get  his  hat,  and  exchange 
canvas  slippers  for  boots. 

''Just  you  let  me  fix  it  up,"  the  doctor  answered.  "Derry 
wants  a  change  quite  as  much  as  you  do.  Two  or  three  days  by 
the  sea  would  set  him  up  fine.  I  guess  I'll  make  him  take  a  day 
or  two  off.  There  ain't  the  hurry  about  this  railway  they're 
prospecting,  that  it  need  prevent  him  having  a  holiday.  Don't 
you  worry  about  anything  I  may  tell  him.  I'm  just  as  close  as 
wax.  You  get  to  bed,  and  have  all  the  sleep  you  can.  You 
take  that  cachet  I  gave  you,  and  don't  hurry  to  get  up  in  the 
mornings." 

He  did  not  advise  her  to  give  up  cooking,  or  any  of  her  house- 
hold work.  But,  when  he  was  with  Derry,  under  the  stars, 
riding  through  the  night,  he  asked  him,  casually  enough,  how 
long  he'd  been  married. 

"Only  just  as  long  as  that!"  he  said,  in  surprise,  when  he  had 
his  answer.  Then  he  rode  on  silently  a  few  paces,  thinking. 
In  the  end  he  put  it  to  Derry  just  as  he  had  outlined  it  to 
Rosaleen. 

"  I  want  you  to  come  up  to  us  for  a  few  days.  The  sea-bathing 
will  do  you  good." 

"Whew!  but  I'd  like  a  taste  of  sea-breeze."  Derry  took  off 
his  hat,  but  there  was  not  enough  wind  to  ruffle  his  hair.  "It's 
not  myself,  though,  that  matters.  I  could  get  away  all  right, 
but  it's  Rosaleen  that  .  .  .  that  can't  ride  just  now." 

"Waal,  fix  up  that  she  can  drive." 

"She  doesn't  feel  the  heat  as  much  as  I  do,  she  tells  me  it 
hardly  affects  her  at  all.  It's  wonderful  how  well  she  feels, 
but  for  the  snake  they  found.  Did  she  tell  you  about  that 
snake? — she  was  as  fit  as  anything  up  to  then." 

"Oh!  that's  what  she  tells  you?" 

"I'd  dearly  like  a  swim  in  the  sea;  it  sounds  too  good  to  be 
true.  But  I  can't  leave  her  in  that  beastly  camp  alone.  ..." 

Ben  wheeled  round  and  looked  at  him. 

184 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"No,  you  can't!" 

Rosaleen's  confidence  was  not  violated;  but  Deny  was  made 
aware  in  some  indefinite,  but  very  practical  way,  that  Ben 
Whippell  had  made  up  his  mind  they  were  both  to  come  to  the 
mission  station  for  a  few  days.  It  was  not  Ben's  way  to  look 
too  far  ahead.  Lady  Ranmore  must  be  moved  at  once;  he  would 
know  presently  whether  she  would  be  able  to  return.  Ways  and 
means  for  the  transport  were  discussed.  That  Derry  should 
ride  and  his  wife  should  drive  was  inevitable.  Ben  lost  no  time 
over  his  job.  He  made  it  his  job,  which  had  become  even  more 
vital  than  saving  these  Siamese  souls.  With  a  pulse  at 
130  and  a  history  such  as  he  had  taken  from  her  lips,  he  knew 
every  hour  was  of  importance. 

The  ox-cart  that  fetched  Rosaleen  the  next  day  was  a  tiny 
thing,  about  two  feet  wide  by  six  feet  long.  Two  chairs  were 
placed  in  it,  with  a  Chinese  mattress,  some  straw,  and  all  that 
was  possible  for  her  comfort.  But  the  roads  were  bad,  and  the 
oxen  shook  from  their  heaving  flanks.  The  tracks  through 
the  rice-fields  could  hardly  be  called  roads;  the  high  banks,  the 
intersecting  waterways,  all  contributed  to  the  unevenness  of  the 
ground.  At  first,  the  mere  fact  of  moving,  of  being  on  the  way 
to  the  sea,  of  leaving  the  camp  behind  them,  kept  her  up.  Derry 
had  ridden  on  in  advance,  there  was  only  herself  with  the  drivers. 
But  the  bumping  grew  worse  and  worse,  and  the  day  was  torren- 
tially  hot.  Not  all  the  prospect  of  coolness  brought  coolness  to 
her.  The  horrible,  incessant  bumping  jarred  her  nerves,  her 
head,  her  back.  It  was  only  a  three  hours'  drive,  but  it  seemed 
endless,  unbearable;  the  pain  every  fresh  rut  brought  began  to 
tear  through  her.  .  .  . 

The  Rosaleen  that  was  lifted  out  of  the  ox-cart  and  carried 
into  the  missionary  house  was  very  near  the  end  of  her  troubles, 
however.  And  there  were  kind  hands  about  her,  white  women's 
hands,  Christian  women's  helpful  hands.  There  was  no  doubt 
how  it  was  with  her.  They  got  her  into  bed. 

The  missionary  house  lay  white  above  the  sea.  From  her 
windows  Rosaleen  could  see  the  water,  through  the  palms,  blue 
and  moving.  The  murmur  of  it  came  to  her  ears  while  she  lay. 

185 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

There  was  a  cooling  breeze,  too,  for  it  was  evening  here.  She 
heard  kind,  pitying  voices,  saw  white  faces.  She  had  not  much 
strength,  but  her  courage  held.  When  he  was  wanted  Ben  was 
there,  too,  and  every  fear  seemed  to  go  with  his  coming.  It 
seemed  long  to  the  women  who  watched.  Brother  Ben  and  the 
women  grew  more  and  more  anxious  for  her.  But  there  came 
never  a  murmur  from  her  lips,  save  a  murmur  of  thanks,  a  word 
of  gratitude,  a  wish  "they'd  not  be  tiring  themselves."  All 
there  was  to  be  borne  she  bore  with  a  great  and  wonderful 
patience.  More  than  once  she  said  how  good  it  was  to  be  here, 
and  that  she  heard  the  sea.  All  through  that  night  the  murmur 
of  the  sea  was  in  her  ears,  and  the  breeze  came  through  the 
open  window.  When  the  whiff  of  chloroform  was  given  her, 
for  Ben  knew  that  her  strength  was  failing,  although  her  courage 
held,  it  was  back  in  the  convent  she  thought  herself,  and  called 
the  Sisters  by  their  names.  For  the  convent,  too,  had  lain 
within  sound  of  the  sea. 

It  was  morning  before  the  baby  lay  beside  her,  and  then  she 
had  passed  into  sleep,  a  sleep  so  like  death  that  those  about  her 
held  their  breath. 

That  was  how  Deny  came  to  see  the  baby  before  she  did. 
He  had  walked  about  through  the  whole  long  night,  full  of  fears, 
self-reproaches,  now  shaken  with  anxiety,  now  desperate  lest 
enough  should  not  be  done  for  her.  There  was  something 
stronger,  that  fought  with  all  the  other  feelings.  Was  it  jealousy  ? 
Was  it  rage  ?  No!  not  rage;  he  could  not  let  it  be  that.  '  Terence 
had  never  meant  to  be  aught  but  good  to  her.  He  had  only 
loved  her  too  much,  and  who  was  it  that  would  not  love  her  ?  It 
was  Terence  that  didn't  know  the  meaning  of  self-denial. 

Then  he  thought  of  all  her  brave  comradeship  to  him  during 
these  past  months.  Ah!  it  was  a  fine  legacy  Terence  had  left 
him.  It  was  she  that  was  more  than  estate  or  title. 

But  Ben  would  not  let  him  stay  too  near  the  sick-room. 
Brother  Ben  Whippell  thought  of  everything.  He  sent  Derry 
for  a  swim  in  that  early  morning  hour,  toward  the  end,  when  he 
himself  hardly  dared  to  think  what  the  end  might  be,  so  worn 
out  was  she  and  exhausted.  Ben  met  him  when  he  came  out  of 

186 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

the  sea,  the  towel  about  his  loins,  his  eyes  alight  with  anxiety, 
but  with  health  and  vigor  in  his  step  as  he  strode  up  through 
the  palms. 

"  Good  news?"  he  called  out,  for  Ben  had  waved  to  him. 

"  There's  a  son  for  you,"  he  said  simply.  He  had  been  through 
a  strenuous  time,  and  he  had  no  words  to  waste. 

And  then  it  came  about  that  Terence's  son  was  put  into 
Berry's  arms.  An  indescribable  feeling  seized  him  as  the  bundle 
stirred,  and  was  warm  and  alive  in  his  hands.  Strong  man  as  he 
was,  he  trembled ;  but  B  en  saw  nothing  strange  in  his  emotion.  B  en 
was  an  emotional  man  himself,  and  that  made  him  sympathetic. 

"Why,  man,  don't  you  know  better  than  that  how  to  hold 
him?"  was  all  he  said. 

Berry's  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  It  was  to  hide  the  knowledge 
of  them  that  the  doctor  spoke,  more  nasally  than  ever,  it  seemed, 
and  made  as  if  to  take  the  bundle  from  him.  It  was  so  small, 
so  puny  a  thing.  Ben  pulled  the  flannel  aside.  •  Two  eyes  as 
small  as  a  kitten's  opened — they  were  blue  eyes.  Berry  saw  that 
the  down  on  the  small  head  was  red,  as  red  as  Terence's  had  been. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?"  Ben  said.  "  It's  a  very  fine  child. 
I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  it  weighs  up  to  eight  pounds.  And 
look  at  his  arms.  He'll  be  a  prize-fighter.  Look  out,  he's 
going  to  hit  you!  See  him  doubling  his  fists." 

If  Berry  could  have  put  his  thoughts  into  words  he  would 
have  answered  that  a  tenderness  like  pain  had  come  into  his 
heart;  it  was  so  small  and  fragile  a  thing  that  he  held.  A  gener- 
ous great  rush  of  feeling  came  over  Berry  when  the  blue  eyes 
had  opened  under  the  red  down.  He  had  had  some  feeling  that 
was  anger,  jealousy  ...  he  knew  not  what.  Now  it  passed 
away  from  him,  passed  away  from  him  forever.  There  was  only 
pity  left,  pity  for  Terence,  who  had  died  without  knowing  what  it 
was  to  hold  a  son  in  his  arms.  But  he,  Berry,  would  father  it. 

He  put  his  head  down  to  it  a  moment,  how  small  it  was,  how 
small  and  weak!  He  was  ashamed  of  his  emotion,  but  he  vowed 
that  never,  never  again  should  anger  come  into  his  heart. 
Terence's  boy  should  be  welcome  with  him.  'Twas  the  head 
of  the  family  he  was,  a  red  Ranmore  again. 

187 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IN  the  weeks  that  followed  Rosaleen  lay  on  her  bed  and 
dreamed,  while  Deny  went  back  to  his  work  and  dreamed. 
But  the  dreams  of  neither  of  them  showed  what  was  in  the 
heart  of  the  other.  And  Ben  Whippell,  to  whom  the  human 
heart  was  well  known,  found  these  two  were  locked  against  him. 

He  did  not  understand  why,  when  she  had  awakened  from 
her  first  long  sleep,  and  they  laid  the  baby  in  her  arms,  she  first 
looked  at  it,  and  then  piteously,  fearfully  at  them,  and  then  had 
broken  into  sudden  tears,  and  turned  away  her  face.  He  did 
not  know  why  she  drew  the  flannel  hurriedly  over  the  child's 
face,  and  then  turned  hers  away  from  it.  Motherhood  seemed 
to  come  to  her  as  a  shame,  not  as  a  joy,  Ben  thought,  as  he 
watched,  saying  nothing,  understanding  less.  She  did  not  want 
to  nurse  or  hold  the  baby;  she  trembled,  and  her  eyes  were 
averted  when  they  laid  it  in  her  arms. 

Ben  had  no  clue  to  the  feeling  that  made  her  beg  him,  in  a 
broken  voice,  not  to  let  Derry  come  near  her,  to  keep  Derry  out 
of  the  room.  He  was  too  good  a  doctor  to  cross  her  wishes,  but 
it  was  hard  to  get  at  the  root  of  them.  It  was  difficult,  too,  to 
comprehend  why  Deny  took  so  quietly  this  prohibition  of  the 
sick-room  to  him. 

"Tell  her  I  understand,"  was  all  his  message. 

It  was  strange  how  Deny  understood  he  must  leave  her  alone 
just  now,  but  he  did.  He  saw  the  child  again;  again  he  made 
his  silent  vows  that  it  should  be  as  a  son  to  him.  The  likeness 
was  more  pronounced  as  the  features  grew  clearer,  and  he  knew 
that  Rosaleen  must  be  alone  with  this  Terence  come  to  life 
again.  He  would  not  be  intruding  on  her.  "Tell  her  I  under- 
stand," was  his  message.  He  could  not  trust  himself  to  say 
more.  If  there  was  jealousy  in  his  heart  he  smothered  it. 

He  went  back  to  the  camp,  and  to  his  work.  However  it 
was  at  the  moment  with  her  and  with  the  child,  he  knew  the 

188 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

time  would  come  when  she  would  want  a  man  beside  her. 
They  were  both  so  frail,  she  and  her  boy;  and  it  seemed  to  him 
they  were  both  so  helpless.  It  made  him  glad  in  his  strength, 
for  they  had  no  one  but  him  to  shelter  them.  His  love  went 
out  to  them  both,  and  made  a  man  of  him.  That  new  manhood 
yearned  for  his  mate,  and  his  dreams  were  full  of  her.  He 
dreamed  that  her  eyes  would  lighten  at  his  coming,  had  he  not 
already  seen  them  lighten  at  his  coming?  And  sometimes, 
in  those  hot,  lonely  nights,  he  saw  great  welcoming  eyes,  and 
felt  the  touch  of  timid  lips.  In  his  dreams  during  these  tropical, 
restless  nights,  he  heard  her  whisper  that  she  needed  him,  even 
as  he  needed  her,  that  she  had  done  with  grieving,  that  now 
she  knew  he  had  loved  her  all  the  time,  that  she  had  done  with 
grieving  for  the  dead,  that  she  was  very  young,  and  needed 
love;  and  ...  in  his  dreams  she  nestled  in  his  arms.  His 
spirit  and  his  flesh  leaped  to  her,  and  yearned  for  her.  She  had 
suffered,  it  was  healing  she  would  find  in  his  arms.  He  had 
always  loved  her;  and  what  could  come  between  them,  since 
Terence's  son  should  be  his  son?  Already  he  loved  him  for 
his  father's  blue  eyes  and  sunny  hair. 

But  Rosaleen's  dreams  were  different.  She  turned  her  face 
from  her  baby,  up  there  in  her  bed  at  the  mission  house,  always 
her  eyes  were  averted  from  him.  And  when  perforce  they  fell 
upon  him,  they  saw  through  tears.  Deny  might  have  forgotten; 
that  was  what  she  had  thought.  He  might  have  forgotten,  for- 
given .  .  .  but  here  were  the  blue  eyes  and  red  hair  to  re- 
mind him.  Now  Derry  could  never  forget. 

They  were  not  blue  eyes  and  sunny  hair,  that  had  won  her 
heart  in  that  summer  past.  She  knew  it  now,  if  she  had  never 
known  it  before.  It  was  not  the  young  sun-god,  with  his 
gaiety  and  wheedling  ways,  that  she  had  loved.  It  was  gay  he 
was,  and  masterful,  and  at  Ranmore  no  one  could  deny  Ran- 
more's  lord.  She  had  seen  his  mother's  eyes  strain  after  him 

"  When  his  foot  went  forth  at  morn, 
Like  a  dancer  in  his  Uitheness" 

But  she  had  never  strained  her  eyes  to  see  him  pass.     What 
13  189 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

had  come  upon  her  through  him  had  come  in  ignorance.  In 
her  wild  weeping  now  she  said  that  he  had  been  selfish  and 
cruel,  and  her  thought  of  him  was  one  burning  flush  and  agony 
of  resentment  and  shame.  She  clenched  her  hands  and  set 
her  teeth  when  she  thought  of  it,  burying  her  face  in  the  pillow, 
writhing  from  her  memories.  Terence  was  not  like  him  who 
had  chased  her  through  the  woods  on  that  moonlight  night. 
Derry,  with  his  long  limbs  and  his  great  shoulders,  and  his 
gentle,  halting  tongue;  him  that  she  knew  now  was  all  the 
lover  or  husband  she  had  wanted.  She  was  slow  to  take  her 
baby  to  her  breast,  she  came  reluctantly  to  her  motherhood. 

Ben  watched  and  wondered.  If,  now,  he  would  force  her 
confidence  it  was  because  her  strength  was  not  returning  to  her. 

"You  ain't  doing  me  no  credit,  and  that's  about  the  size  of 
it,"  he  told  her  one  day.  "You're  fretting.  You  wouldn't 
like  to  tell  me  what  you  are  fretting  about,  I  suppose?" 

He  was  sitting  by  her  bedside,  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  her 
wrist  when  he  asked  it.  His  nasal  voice  was  surprisingly  gentle. 
His  practised  eye,  no  less  than  the  hand  on  her  pulse,  told  him 
that  all  was  not  well  with  his  patient.  She  flushed  under  his 
eyes,  a  delicate  rose-tint  of  a  flush  spread  about  her  paleness; 
then  she  turned  her  face  away  from  him. 

"I  guess  Derry  is  lonely,  back  there  in  the  camp,  without 
you?  If  you  don't  get  better  quicker  than  this  I  shall  have  to 
order  you  right  away  to  Bangkok,  without  seeing  him  at  all. 
Or  shall  I  send  for  him  here,  and  see  if  his  treatment  would 
be  better  for  you  than  mine?" 

He  waited  for  his  answer.  The  baby  was  nearly  three 
weeks  old,  and  all  that  time  Derry  had  not  once  ridden  the  two 
or  three  hours  that  lay  between  him  and  his  wife  and  child. 
Brother  Ben  could  not  understand  it  at  all.  It  was  not  curi- 
osity he  had  about  it,  only  the  knowledge  that  there  was  some- 
thing amiss,  and  a  beautiful  desire  to  help.  He  had  been  sent 
into  the  world  to  help  his  brothers  and  sisters;  that  was  his 
whole  creed. 

"I'll  send  right  along  for  him  if  you  say  the  word.  You  are 
crying  in  the  night,  and  sometimes  in  the  day.  It  ain't  good 

190 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

for  you,  and  it  ain't  good  for  the  baby.  I  'm  Brother  Ben  Whip- 
pell,  I  went  through  deep  waters  before  I  came  out  here,  I'll 
tell  you  about  it  some  day,  if  ever  you  care  to  hear.  I  'd  like 
to  lend  you  a  hand  to  get  through,  if  you  are  in  the  floods. 
Hold  on  to  my  hand,  if  it  is  any  good  to  you;  pull  yourself  on 
your  feet  through  holding  on  to  me.  There  ain't  no  saying 
what  a  friendly  hand  can  do,  until  you're  holding  on  to  it. 
I'm  talking  in  the  dark,  since  you're  keeping  me  there" — 
he  kept  his  hand  on  her  wrist — "but  I'm  a  man  that's  been 
through  ..." 

She  was  not  crying  now,  although  the  eyes  she  turned  on  him 
were  wan  and  sunken  with  tears. 

"I  guess  Derry's  lonesome  up  at  the  camp,  waiting  for  your 
message." 

"It's  not  Derry  will  be  wanting  to  hear  from  me." 

"What  makes  you  think  that?  I  guess  you've  made  a  bad 
hit  this  time;  you're  wide  of  the  bull's-eye.  'Just  let  me  know, 
and  I'll  come  along  the  moment  she  sends  for  me,'  that  was 
what  Derry  said,  and  he  said  that  'he  understood.'  ' 

"He  said  that?" 

"He  did  indeed,  he  said  just  that.  I'm  Brother  Ben  Whip- 
pell,  ain't  he  been  good  to  you?" 

At  that  she  turned  to  him  wildly. 

"Good  to  me!  Good  to  me!  It's  an  angel  Derry's  been 
to  me!  It's  a  saint  of  a  man  he  is!"  And  then  burst  out 
crying  again.  "It's  me  that's  ashamed!" 

Ben  thought  he  had  the  cue.  The  best  of  men  make  their 
mistakes,  but  when  good  men  make  mistakes,  they  do  little 
harm  with  them. 

"If" — his  voice  was  gender  than  any  woman's — "if  he  loved 
you  too  much  .  .  .  too  soon,  and  now  that  he  ain't  here, 
and  you've  had  pain  and  suffering  through  it,  you're  bearing 
him  malice;  just  think  what  it  must  be  to  him,  up  there, 
alone,  thinking  of  it.  He  is  sorry,  I'll  bet  he  is  sorry.  He 
walked  up  and  down  all  the  night,  he  never  went  to  bed,  he 
could  not  rest." 

"Oh,  don't,  don't!"     She  covered  her  ears. 

191 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Don't  be  thinking  all  the  time  about  yourself,  now.  Think 
of  that  time  you  were  with  him  together  in  the  camp,  killing 
yourself  that  he  should  miss  nothing.  You  love  him,  you 
know  you  love  him." 

"Ah!"  she  burst  out  crying:  "I  love  him  .  .  .it's  him 
that  ..."  The  sobs  interrupted  her;  but  Ben  finished  her 
sentence. 

"That  loves  you.  Don't  doubt  it.  7  know.  When  you've 
been  through  waters,  you  get  to  know  things  ..." 

"But  when  he  sees  him?"  she  said  wildly,  she  sat  up  in  bed, 
and  her  eyes  and  voice  were  wild.  "  When  he  sets  his  eyes  on 
him,  and  remembers  ...  All  the  time  we  've  been  together  lately, 
he  's  forgotten.  But  what '11  he  say  when  he  sees  him?  .  .  .  ' 

"What  is  it  you  are  talking  about?  Don't  you  know  he  has 
seen  him?" 

Less  and  less  Ben  understood,  more  and  more  he  wanted  to 
help.  He  could  see  fear  in  her  wild  eyes,  but  love  was  there, 
too;  surely  love  was  there. 

"Has  seen  him?" 

"To  be  sure.     Held  him  in  his  arms,  kissed  him." 

"Derryr 

"That's  so.  Why,  it  was  when  he  held  him  in  his  arms  that 
he  sent  you  that  message.  Tell  her  'I  understand,'  he  said." 

"The  saint  of  a  man!"  she  gasped  out.  But  now  there  was 
no  longer  fear  in  her  eyes,  they  glowed  with  some  emotion 
he  could  not  understand. 

"The  saint  of  a  man  he  is!  Tell  me  all  he  said,  every  word; 
and  how  he  looked — tell  me!  .  .  ." 

She  was  so  agitated,  excited,  insistent,  Ben  began  to  fear 
for  her.  She  turned  quite  white,  he  thought  she  was  going  to 
faint.  He  took  the  pillow  from  under  her  head  and  made  her 
lie  quite  flat  as  he  went  on  talking. 

"I'll  tell  you  every  word.  You're  scaring  me  with  your 
dough  face.  I  wonder  what  you've  been  conjuring  up.  Now, 
what  made  you  think  he  would  go  away  without  seeing  his 
son?  .  .  .I'll  leave  off  talking  if  you  don't  lie  still!  Did 
you  think  he  would  be  ashamed  of  him  then,  a  fine,  great  boy 

192 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

like  that?"  The  painful  flush  that  spread  over  the  pallor, 
confirmed  him  in  his  mistake.  He  went  on,  "If  he  has  come 
a  little  before  his  time,  Berry's  welcome  had  to  be  warmer. 
I  guess  he  thought  you  might  chill  him.  Deny  just  gathered 
him  up  in  his  arms,  and  warmed  and  cradled  him  there." 

"Is  it  truth  you're  tellin'  me?     Is  it  truth?" 

"He  cradled  him  there  in  his  arms,  I've  never  seen  a  man 
handier.  I  pulled  the  flannel  off  his  head,  so  that  he  should 
see  him  properly,  and  the  young  flapper  opened  his  eyes.  'It's 
heaven  he's  got  between  the  lids  of  him!'  Deny  whispered. 
He  knew  Who  had  sent  the  child  to  you,"  Ben  added  softly. 
It  was  so  easy  to  forget  he  was  a  missionary,  it  was  only  Ben 
himself  who  never  forgot  he  had  a  message  to  give,  even 
although  he  knew,  too,  that  there  were  times  and  seasons  for 
delivering  it.  Rosaleen  only  said  feverishly: 

"Go  on,  go  on!     Tell  me  everything  he  said  and  did." 

"After  he  had  said  it  was  heaven  he'd  got  between  his  lids, 
he  stooped  and  kissed  him." 

"Kissed  him?"  Now,  for  the  first  time,  it  was  the  mother- 
look  that  came  into  her  eyes.  Ben  got  up  and  took  the  sleeping 
bundle  from  the  cradle,  laying  it  beside  her.  She  turned  over 
on  her  side,  and  gathered  it  in  her  arms.  "He  kissed  him!" 
she  said,  wonderingly,  under  her  breath. 

"  That  was  the  first  time  he  saw  him.    The  second  time  .    .    . " 

"Derry  saw  him  twice?" 

"Waal,  there  ain't  nothing  out  of  the  way  in  that,  is  there  ? 
The  last  time  he  saw  him  was  the  day  before  he  went  away. 
'Ain't  he  just  growing?'  he  said.  Then  he  took  him  over  to 
the  window  and  looked  at  him  quite  a  long  time.  He  ain't 
ashamed  of  him.  'He's  a  red  Ranmore,'  Derry  said.  'They 
say  up  at  Ranmore  it's  the  sun  shines  brighter  when  a  red 
Ranmore  is  born.'  'You're  proud  of  him?'  I  asked.  'It's 
proud  of  him  I'll  be,'  he  answered  simply.  Then  he  laid  him 
on  the  pillow  in  the  easy  chair,  as  if  he'd  been  used  to  handling 
babies  all  his  life.  And  I  saw  him  kneeling  down  ...  I 
didn't  stay  after  that.  If  he  was  putting  up  a  prayer  for  him, 
if  he  had  any  cause  to  reproach  himself.  ..." 

193 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no!  not  him,  not  Deny!" 

"I  left*  him  on  his  knees  by  the  boy.  That's  when  we  don't 
want  no  doctor.  I  guess  if  he  puts  up  a  prayer  it's  going  to  be 
answered.  When  I  came  back  he  had  him  in  his  arms  again. 
Nurse  Ward  said  you  were  stirring,  and  we  did  not  want  you  to 
wake  and  find  him  gone.  Deny  had  him  up  against  his  face. 
He  kissed  him  before  he  gave  him  back  to  me.  '  It's  proud  and 
fond  of  him  I'll  be,'  he  said,  almost  as  if  to  himself.  ..." 

It  was  the  doctor,  not  the  missionary  in  him,  that  watched  the 
color  returning  to  lips  and  cheek.  If  all  the  time  he  was  talking 
under  a  mistake,  he  was  effecting  all  the  good  that  would  have 
been  done  had  he  known  the  facts. 

"You've  brought  me  life,"  was  what  she  said  when  he  rose. 
He  knew  it  was  time  to  go.  She  seized  his  hand,  and  would 
have  kissed  it.  "It's  life  you've  brought  me,"  she  said  as  he 
drew  it  away,  patting  her  shoulder  instead. 

He  never  knew  the  truth,  but  then  he  had  no  curiosity.  The 
spirit  that  moved  him  was  truly  the  spirit  of  Christ,  and  it  was  His 
work  of  healing  he  tried  to  do  in  the  world,  healing  of  both  body 
and  soul.  Some  day  the  life  of  Brother  Ben  Whippell  will  be 
written,  but  the  writer  worthy  of  the  task  will  have  to  be  found. 

After  he  had  left  her,  Rosaleen  lay  conscious  of  nothing  but 
a  rush  of  thanksgiving.  All  that  dreadful  time  at  Wat  Poh  Pra 
she  had  been  upheld  by  Derry's  words,  "We'll  be  happy  together 
some  day  .  .  .  Say  you  think  so,  too."  But,  after  she  had  seen 
Terence's  child,  she  could  not  think  so.  Surely  he  would  always 
be  between  them.  But  now  that  cloud  had  passed  away.  It 
was  her  weakness  that  had  brought  it  about,  perhaps.  Now 
her  tears  were  tears  of  thanksgiving.  What  a  man  Deny  was! 
What  a  saint  among  men!  And  he  had  kissed  the  baby,  and 
said  it  was  heaven  he  saw  shining  through  his  eyes.  Rosaleen 
could  see  it  now — now  the  mother  in  her  was  awakening. 

From  that  day  Ben  began  to  see  the  improvement  in  his 
patient,  and  once  begun  it  made  quick  headway.  He  did  not 
ask  her  again  whether  he  should  send  for  Deny.  That  could 
wait.  If  there  had  been  a  flaw  in  the  understanding  between 
them,  and  he  was  shy  of  coming  to  her,  or  she  of  sending  for 

194 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

him,  time  would  be  the  best  mediator.  Ben  did  not  know  exactly 
what  he  had  said,  or  how  it  had  affected  her,  but  he  knew  that 
once  again  it  had  been  vouchsafed  to  him  to  be  of  service.  Ben 
Whippell  was  quite  happy  as  he  saw  Rosaleen  growing  stronger 
day  by  day,  and  the  baby  thriving,  too.  He  could  go  about  his 
Master's  business  again;  there  was  no  young  thing  lying,  broken 
and  unhappy  in  his  house.  He  heard  her  singing  to  her  baby 
now,  sweet  Irish  lullabies.  It  gladdened  him  in  his  work. 
There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said  between  them. 

The  young  mother  that  was  waking  in  Rosaleen  was  very  like 
other  young  mothers.  The  baby's  eyes  were  still  a  miracle  of 
blueness,  but  he  had  nibbed  off  some  of  the  red  down,  and  the 
soft  head  was  almost  bald.  There  was  no  doubt  his  hair  would 
grow  again,  Nurse  Ward  assured  her.  She  was  anxious  about 
it,  it  seemed  so  strange  it  should  have  disappeared.  She  was  not 
satisfied  without  consulting  Ben,  and  getting  Ben's  grave  re- 
assurance that  he  was  not  always  going  to  be  bald,  and  that  the 
occurrence  was  not  unusual.  Of  course,  already  he  was  unlike 
any  other  baby,  and  she  had  a  surprising  knack  with  him. 
She  was  singing  lullabies  to  him,  but  she  and  her  heart  were 
singing  low.  It  was  still  a  waiting-time  with  her,  although  now 
it  was  a  glad  waiting-time.  She  was  shy  of  sending,  but  she 
knew  Derry  would  come  to  her.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had 
ever  sought  her  glass.  Now  she  thought  about  her  looks.  She 
had  not  much  reason  to  be  dissatisfied,  for,  as  soon  as  she  was 
strong  enough,  Ben  made  her  spend  all  her  days  in  the  open  air, 
most  of  them  by  that  unfamiliar,  tideless  sea.  Unfamiliar  and 
tideless  it  was,  though  the  wind,  that  stirred  it  so  gently,  kissed 
her  lips  to  coral,  and  turned  the  eggshell  white  of  her  skin 
to  fine  ivory.  All  nature  came  to  her  aid  to  prepare  her  for 
Derry's  coming. 

For,  of  course,  Derry  was  coming.  Mysteriously  he  knew  it 
was  time,  there  is  no  saying  how  the  knowledge  came  to  him, 
but  certainly  it  was  there.  He  rode  up,  and  she  saw  him  while 
he  was  still  a  long  way  off.  She  got  out  of  the  house,  and  ran 
down  to  the  sea.  It  was  there  he  found  her,  an  hour  or  so  later, 
when  he  had  had  his  bath,  and  changed  his  clothes.  He  was 

195 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

quite  excited,  and  the  blood  rushed  to  his  head,  for  everything 
had  changed  between  them,  he  did  not  know  how.  His  dreams 
had  led  him  a  long  way;  he  went  to  meet  her  with  outstretched 
arms.  But  they  fell  to  his  side  again.  She  looked  so  beautiful. 
Her  eyes  fell  before  his,  and  he  could  not  see  the  gladness  in 
them,  and  now  he  was  afraid.  Neither  of  them  had  words  for 
greeting. 

"  You've  been  up  to  the  house  ?"  She  spoke  first,  as  a  woman 
will. 

"  Yes.     They  told  me  I'd  find  you  by  the  sea." 

"It's  rare  and  pleasant  by  the  sea." 

"It's  made  you  look  fine." 

They  walked  up  to  the  house  side  by  side,  hardly  speaking 
together  more  than  that;  the  silence  of  deep  feeling  was  on  them 
both.  And  yet  they  did  not  understand  each  other  well  enough 
to  be  quite  silent.  They  were  shy  of  what  was  between  them, 
unconscious  what  it  was.  Deny  was  tongue-tied  and  stammer- 
ing; more  than  once  he  said  she  looked  fine.  And  his  eyes  said 
it  oftener,  and  more  eloquently.  He  could  not  keep  his  eyes 
from  her,  not  during  that  walk  up  to  the  house,  nor  after- 
ward. 

Ben  was  waiting  for  them  on  the  veranda,  and  his  welcome 
was  not  wanting  in  warmth;  he  saw  they  were  shy  with  each 
other,  and  through  that  evening  meal,  when  he  was  talking,  and 
making  his  effort  to  release  Derry's  halting  tongue,  he  noted 
that  her  eyes  were  averted,  and  her  color  came  and  went,  that 
her  husband's  eyes  were  never  off  her,  and  the  flush  rose  some- 
times to  his  forehead.  But  presently  they  were  all  talking 
together,  notwithstanding,  for  Ben  had  the  gift  of  being  host. 
Rosaleen's  spirits  rose  with  Berry's  account  of  the  troubles 
there  had  been  in  the  camp  since  she  left,  of  how  he  had  eaten 
the  last  chicken  and  been  eggless  ever  after;  of  the  famous  effort 
of  the  coolies  to  make  the  bread  the  "mem"  had  made;  of  the 
state  in  which  it  had  been  served  up  to  him;  of  the  cook  "boy" 
who  had  given  notice,  but  been  forbidden  to  leave;  and  of  how, 
while  the  rest  of  the  servants  were  sleeping  or  eating,  he  had 
lifted  up  a  plank  in  the  sala,  when  he  was  supposed  to  be  prepar- 

196 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

ing  the  evening  meal,  and  had  slipped  through,  disappearing 
from  under  the  piles. 

There  was  talk  of  the  state  of  the  roads,  and  of  the  native 
methods,  and  of  the  rice  crops.  The  talk  came  easily,  then  with 
difficulty;  and  there  were  intervals  of  silence  which  even  Ben 
Whippell  found  it  difficult  to  bridge.  Three  was  an  awkward 
number.  Yet  they  both  seemed  to  prefer  it  to  a  tite-b-tete. 
He  said  it  was  a  wonderful  night,  the  moon  would  be  lying  like 
a  silver  net  over  the  tree-tops  and  on  the  surface  of  the  sea,  he 
would  go  to  the  veranda  for  a  smoke  after  supper.  But  Rosaleen 
made  a  quick  excuse  to  slip  up  to  the  baby.  Deny  joined  him 
on  the  veranda  immediately  and  pulled  out  his  pipe.  Derry 
said  he  must  be  riding  back  soon.  He  and  Rosaleen  had  said 
*'good  night"  at  the  door. 

Ben  thought  the  time  had  come  when  he  must  cease  to  be 
hospitable. 

"When  are  you  taking  them  away  from  us?"  he  asked  Derry, 
carelessly,  when  he  gave  him  a  light.  "You've  finished  your 
job  here,  ain't  you  ?  You'll  be  going  back  to  Bangkok,  I  surmise. 
Why  don't  you  take  them  both  up  to  the  Missionaries  at  Petcha- 
buri  for  a  few  days?  Make  a  sort  of  second  honeymoon  of  it?" 
He  was  holding  the  match  for  Derry;  he  saw  that  the  hand  that 
held  the  pipe  was  not  quite  steady.  "You'll  have  the  place  to 
yourselves  for  the  best  part  of  a  week.  They  are  all  going 
up  to  the  Congress.  You'll  find  everything  very  com- 
fortable. ..." 

"If  she'll  come  with  me,"  stammered  Derry,  with  the  flush 
mounting,  never  stopping  to  query  what  Ben  would  make  of 
the  doubt.  Ben  had  no  doubt  she  would  go  with  him.  He 
thought  it  well  they  should  be  alone  together. 

Two  or  three  days  more  Rosaleen  stayed  here  by  the  sea, 
while  Derry  went  back  and  finished  his  work.  On  Saturday 
they  would  make  the  first  stage  of  their  journey  to  Bangkok, 
halting  for  a  few  days  at  the  Missionaries'.  Both  of  them — he 
at  Wat  Poh  Pra,  and  she  during  long  days  by  the  sea,  long  nights 
lying  tremblingly  awake — were  facing  the  prospect  of  being 
alone  together.  Both  of  them  were  facing  it  with  shifting  color 

197 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

and  unsteady  pulses.  Everything  would  be  different  from  what 
it  had  been  before.  What  would  it  be  now,  that  life  they  were 
going  to  face  together?  Deny  knew  what  he  hoped  it  would 
be,  what  he  meant  it  should  be.  Rosaleen  did  not  allow  her- 
self to  think  over  much.  She  only  knew  the  world  was 
beautiful. 

An  hour  or  two  before  they  started  Deny  knocked  at  Rosa- 
leen's  bedroom  door. 

"Can  I  come  in?" 

"Come  in!"  She  was  standing  at  the  window,  with  the  baby 
in  her  arms,  saying  good-bye  to  the  palms  and  the  blue  sea 
beyond  them,  a  silent  good-bye.  She  turned  her  face  to  him 
when  she  saw  him  enter.  If  she  blushed  he  did  not  notice  it; 
she  was  always  beautiful  in  his  eyes.  The  room  was  in  some 
disorder,  for  she  had  been  packing  up,  and  now  boxes  were 
corded  and  everything  was  ready.  He  was  in  a  hurry,  and 
what  he  wanted  to  say  had  to  be  said  in  a  hurry,  with  no  signifi- 
cance in  it.  He  was  acting  on  impulse  again,  quick 
impulse. 

"Brother  Ben  wants  to  christen  the  boy  before  we  start. 
You  don't  mind,  do  you?  He  asked  me  what  name  we'd  be 
calling  him  by.  I  said  there  had  been  Terences  at  Ranmore 
before  Saint  Patrick.  We'll  be  calling  him  Terence,  I  told  him. 
Will  you  bring  him  down?  Nurse  Ward  wants  to  be  godmother, 
and  then  there's  Brother  Ben  and  myself  .  .  . " 

Derry  was  breathless  and  hurried,  holding  the  door  open. 
He  wanted  to  get  the  naming  over.  He  hated  to  see  the  fear 
come  into  her  eyes  when  he  spoke  Terence's  name,  so  he  avoided 
her  eyes.  But  had  he  not  avoided  them,  and  had  they  not  been 
downcast,  he  would  have  seen  there  was  no  fear  in  them,  only 
hope. 

"It's  Terence  then  we'll  call  him,"  she  said,  as  she  went  by 
him  to  the  door.  Her  color  was  high  as  she  passed  him,  but 
there  was  no  sorrow  in  her  eyes,  and  her  voice  was  quite  steady. 
He  put  out  an  arresting  arm,  and  the  flush  deepened.  His 
voice  went  hoarse;  he  did  not  know  what  to  say  to  her  when  she 
was  standing  near  him  like  this. 

198 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"You're  not  sorry  to  be  going  away  with  me?" 
They  were  such  beautiful  eyes  she  raised  to  him,  and  the 
flush  made  her  face  like  a  wonderful  flower.     He  could  only 
say  again,  "You're  not  sorry?"     It  was  all  so  wonderful. 

She  gave  him  a  quick  look.     No!  she  was  not  sorry.     Then 
she  was  out  of  the  door.     They  must  not  keep  Ben  waiting. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THEY  stood  side  by  side  while  Ben  read  the  service  and 
Deny  made  his  responses.  Possibly  his  mind  was  not 
concentrated  on  what  he  was  saying.  This  was  the 
beginning  of  his  love  story,  he  had  seen  the  light  in  her  eyes. 
It  was  a  girl  she  looked  to-day  with  her  star-centered  eyes,  and 
the  flush  on  her  cheeks,  and  his  heart  leaped  to  her.  While  he 
was  saying  his  responses,  and  hearing  Ben's  voice,  he  felt  the 
flush  of  his  manhood  upon  him,  and  his  pulses  rose  and 
fell.  They  were  going  away  together,  and  it  was  love  that  lay 
before  him.  The  whisper  of  it  went  through  him  like  the  whisper 
of  spring  at  Ranmore,  when  the  brown  trees  put  forth  the  crum- 
pled green  of  the  first  young  leaves,  when  the  water  rushes  down 
from  the  mountain  to  the  welcoming  lake,  and  daffodil  and  violet 
push  their  way  through  the  ground  to  meet  the  sun's  first  wooing, 
when  the  lush  grass  waves  like  corn  in  the  soft  April  breezes, 
and  the  clambering  rose  trees  throw  out  their  eager  shoots. 

"And  He  took  them  up  in  His  arms,  put  His  hands  upon  them 
and  blessed  them." 

These  were  the  words  that  he  heard,  but  he  was  thinking,  as 
she  moved  across  the  room,  of  the  buoyancy  and  spring  in  her 
walk,  and  the  new  young  slenderness.  She  had  run  from  him 
down  the  stairs  with  the  old  swiftness  of  foot.  This  was  the 
girl  he  had  wooed. 

They  took  leave  of  Ben,  and  of  Nurse  Ward.  Rosaleen 
would  have  kissed  Ben's  hand,  so  grateful  was  she  to  him,  but 
he  kissed  her  cheek  instead,  and  Deny  envied  him!  Yet  he 
knew  his  time  was  coming.  Every  moment  his  spirits  rose. 
He  told  Ben  how  grateful  he  was  for  all  his  goodness  to  his  wife 
and  child.  He  watched  Rosaleen  out  of  the  tail  of  his  eye  when 
he  said  it,  and  rejoiced  at  the  pink  embarrassment  he  saw.  He 
kissed  Nurse  Ward,  saying  he  did  not  see  why  Ben  should  have 

200 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

all  the  privileges.  And  all  the  time  he  was  watching  Rosaleen. 
She  was  going  away  with  him.  They  were  at  the  beginning  of 
everything.  He  was  like  a  man  starting  on  his  wedding  journey. 
Even  Ben  was  startled  at  his  spirits,  and  her  silence,  and  the 
happiness  that  seemed  to  illuminate  both  of  them.  They  did 
not  look  upon  each  other,  although  their  supreme  consciousness 
of  each  other's  presence  was  so  patent  throughout  that  leave- 
taking. 

Again  Derry  rode  and  she  drove.  This  time  the  road  seemed 
less  uneven,  the  heat  was  not  so  trying,  and  through  the  sun  and 
the  heat  of  that  new  day  happiness  drove  with  her,  seeming  to 
ease  the  heavy  wheels  with  rubber  tires,  and  changed  the  wooden 
supports  of  the  wagon  into  C  springs.  He  rode  by  her  side, 
behind  or  in  front  of  the  wagon.  But  a  dozen  times  that  day 
he  asked  if  she  were  comfortable,  if  she  wanted  anything,  if  she 
would  get  out  and  walk  a  space  with  him. 

The  house  in  Missionary  Land  near  Petchaburi  was  empty, 
and  awaited  their  coming.  Ben's  wife  and  daughter  had  gone 
home  for  a  while,  back  to  Tecsumah;  the  rest  of  the  mission 
party  were  at  the  Congress  in  Bangkok.  Derry  and  Rosaleen 
had  the  place  to  themselves,  not  only  the  house,  but  the  generous 
garden,  and  practically  the  whole  small  mission  station.  From 
the  very  moment  they  arrived  there,  from  the  very  first  night,  he 
began  to  woo  her.  Perhaps  the  wooing  had  begun  before,  but 
now  it  was  conscious  wooing.  Both  of  them  were  conscious  of 
it  all  the  time.  She  was  his  wife,  had  nursed  him  through 
illness,  shared  solitude  and  hardship  with  him;  yet  never  a 
touch  had  he  laid  upon  her  lips,  nor  had  his  hand  sought  her 
waist. 

The  first  day  or  two  here  he  was  a  little  humble,  as  befits  the 
perfect  lover,  and  a  little  bold,  as  befits  him,  too.  And  when 
he  was  humble,  and  pressed  his  suit  lightly,  thinking  to  give  her 
time,  and  not  play  the  tyrant  with  her,  she  thought  she  had  been 
mistaken,  and  held  herself  more  aloof.  And  when  he  was  bold, 
with  his  eyes,  or,  perhaps,  with  a  hand  on  her  shoulder,  or  a 
quick  arm  about  her  waist,  she  was  off  and  away  from  him,  full 
of  fear.  Sometimes  the  old  pain  throbbed  in  her,  lest  he  be  think-  * 

201 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

ing  lightly  of  her.  Always  she  knew  she  would  give  her  life, 
and  her  immortal  soul  for  him.  The  trembling  at  the  touch 
of  him,  that  he,  or  she,  mistook  for  fear,  was  more  of  the  nature 
of  an  ecstasy.  It  was  something  beyond  happiness  that  was 
coming  to  her,  the  exquisite  joy  of  it  touched  pain.  Always  she 
ran  away  from  it,  but  it  was  not  far  that  she  ran. 

That  was  how  the  first  two  days  passed.  This  house,  too, 
had  a  veranda,  the  very  pattern  of  the  one  at  Bangkok,  where 
she  had  sat  quietly  by  Derry's  side  and  done  her  needlework. 
But  she  did  little  needlework  these  two  days.  It  was  she  who 
was  restless  now,  more  restless  than  he.  She  was  forever 
avoiding  these  ttte-a-Utes,  or  seeking  them.  There  was  a  ham- 
mock on  the  veranda.  Deny  said  it  was  too  high  for  her  to 
get  into  unaided. 

"Let  me  swing  you  up." 

"I'm  too  heavy  for  you." 

"Why,  it's  no  weight  at  all  you  are!" 

"I  can  get  up  by  myself.     Let  me  be." 

She  fluttered  like  a  bird  between  his  hands.  He  held  her  the 
tighter. 

"I  never  thought  you  were  so  light." 

"Let  me  go,  Derry." 

All  the  ivory  and  white  of  her  skin  were  flushed  with  the  wild 
blushes  that  came  and  went. 

"I  like  to  be  holding  you,"  he  whispered.  "I  like  to  be 
feeling  you  in  my  arms," 

But  she  escaped  from  him  that  time.  She  made  him  set 
her  down.  It  was  seldom  afterward  that  she  found  herself 
safe;  his  arms  were  so  long. 

"It's  needing  support  you  are  .  .  .  you  are  not  strong 
yet,"  he  told  her.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  always  blush- 
ing. To  him  there  was  nothing  sweeter  than  the  confusion  he 
could  bring  upon  her.  Now  he  began  to  tell  her  about  her 
looks,  about  her  gray  eyes  that  had  stars  in  them,  about  the 
pink,  thin  lips,  that  smiled  until  the  dimple  came  and  played  in 
the  corners  of  her  mouth;  of  her  eyebrows  that  were  like  little 
dark  feathers,  moved  by  her  changing  expressions  as  feathers 

202 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

in  the  wind.  Then  he  thought  that  was  a  bad  simile,  and 
sought  for  another.  They  were  like  a  delicate  etching.  He 
must  lay  a  finger  on  them  to  see  of  they  would  rub  out.  Her 
face  went  down,  and  he  made  it  shelter  on  his  shoulder. 

"And  the  hair  of  you,"  he  whispered,  "is  like  the  trees  at 
Ranmore." 

He  put  his  face  down  upon  it,  it  was  soft  hair,  he  could  bury 
his  face  in  the  abundance  of  it.  It  was  loose,  and  waved  back 
from  her  face,  the  great  knot  at  the  back  seemed  as  if  no  hair- 
pins could  hold  its  weight.  "You  remember  that  night  in  the 
woods,  when  it  was  all  about  you  like  a  shawl?  You'll  let  it 
down  one  day,  and  let  me  see.  .  .  ."  But  she  wrested  herself 
from  him. 

That  evening  Derry  said  he  was  too  far  off  from  her  if  he 
faced  her  across  the  table  for  dinner.  Nothing  would  serve  him 
but  to  bring  his  chair  beside  hers. 

"You  may  be  wanting  something  passed  to  you,"  he  said, 
coolly,  although  he  was  not  cool  at  all.  "It's  over-exerting 
yourself  you  are  with  that  great  dish  in  front  of  you."  With 
the  coolies  in  the  room  she  could  say  nothing,  but  only  make 
way  for  him  beside  her.  Her  quickened  heart-beat,  and  the 
feeling  she  had  that  there  was  storm  in  the  air,  took  away  her 
appetite.  All  that  evening  was  full  of  thrills  and  excitements, 
of  sudden  flushes;  every  word  he  said  had  subtle  meanings. 
She  felt  the  storm  that  was  in  the  air,  and  that  there  was  some 
strange  glory  of  sunset  beyond  it.  When  she  was  a  child  she 
had  heard  of  the  pot  of  gold  that  lay  at  the  end  of  the  rainbow. 
After  dinner  the  storm  came.  He  put  both  those  strong  arms 
about  her,  and  swore  he  could  not  let  her  go.  He  said  her  cheek 
was  as  soft  as  a  baby's.  Can  a  man  taste  and  not  hunger? 
His  lips  lingered,  and  now  it  was  hers  they  had  found  and 
forced.  He  let  her  go  before  he  had  done  more  than  know  how 
they  trembled  and  grew  hot  beneath  his  own. 

Afterward  they  sat  in  a  new  silence.  Surely,  it  was  no 
longer  dark.  Surely,  they  were  in  the  arc  of  the  rainbow,  and 
all  the  lights  and  colors  lay  about  them  more  beautiful  than 
gold;  it  enwrapped  them  with  its  radiance,  and  it  was  they 

203 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

that  were  part  of  it  She  did  not  know  how  it  was  she  found 
herself  in  his  arms  again,  but  she  was  trembling  there,  held 
close  and  exquisitely  afraid. 

"Are  you  frightened  of  me  for  long?"  he  whispered.  "You've 
need  to  be.  I  can't  wait  longer."  His  breath  was  in  her 
ear,  and  the  whisper  went  through  her.  They  were  unknown 
feelings  he  stirred  with  that  warm  breath  that  she  felt  tingling 
in  the  crown  of  her  head,  and  in  the  soles  of  her  feet.  "It's 
hungry  for  you  I  am.  I  want  my  wife — my  wife,  Rosaleen. 
I've  been  so  patient.  ..." 

It  was  such  a  short  week  they  passed  together  at  that  little 
isolated  Missionary  Station,  but  the  emotions  of  a  lifetime  were 
concentrated  in  it.  Even  now  she  could  hardly  believe  that 
Derry  cared  for  her.  Expression  was  always  rare  and  difficult 
to  her,  but  feeling  deepened,  and  deepened,  until  it  was  the 
spring  from  which  life  itself  was  fed.  Derry  accepted  what 
had  come  to  him  more  lightly,  there  was  so  much  of  the  boy 
still  in  him.  He  had  come  into  his  own,  and  that  was  enough. 
But  he  would  not  let  her  be  out  of  his  sight,  nor  out  of  the  reach 
of  his  arms  for  very  long.  He  was  boyishly  in  love  with  her, 
and  patently  happy,  bubbling  over  with  good  spirits  and  easy 
talk,  always  a  wonder  to  her  with  his  exuberance. 

They  had  to  return  to  Bangkok  at  the  end  of  the  week,  but 
were  loth  to  go. 

"Our  honeymoon  is  over,"  Rosaleen  said,  as  they  watched 
the  stars  together  on  the  last  night  here. 

"And  that's  what  it  will  never  be  ...  all  our  life  is  going 
to  be  honeymoon."  She  was  never  beyond  reach  of  his  arms, 
and  now  her  cheek  lay  against  his. 

"It's  all  our  life  will  be  honeymoon,"  he  repeated.  His 
breath  was  soft  on  her  ear,  and  his  lips  on  her  cheek. 

"You're  meaning  that?"  she  whispered. 

"An'  you're  knowing  it  as  well  as  I  do." 

\     • 


CHAPTER  XIX 

EMMA  BIDDLE  had  done  all  and  more  than  she  had 
promised    in    protecting    the    bungalow    at    Bangkok 
from  the  native  servants,  and  the  native  vermin.     The 
veranda  was  gay  with  flowers  and  Chinese  cushions.     There 
were  white  curtains  up  in  the  windows.     Emma  had  neglected 
nothing  for  their  home-coming,  and,  of  course,  she  and  Sydney 
were  their  first  visitors.     Never  had  there  been  so  successful  an 
experiment,  the  Biddies  thought. 

"They  might  have  been  married  yesterday  for  the  way  he 
looks  at  her,  and  she  at  him."  So  Emma  told  Sydney  after  the 
visit  was  over.  "It  was  the  best  idea  we  ever  had,  to  separate 
them  for  a  bit,  and  then  send  her  up  after  him." 

She  took  to  herself  the  entire  credit  for  the  happiness  that 
was  so  unmistakable  about  both  of  them;  and  certainly,  if 
intention  were  to  count,  she  deserved  the  pleasure  she  got  out 
of  the  supposition.  She  was  delighted  with  the  baby,  too. 
Derry  and  Rosaleen  had  to  school  themselves  not  to  mind  the 
exclamations  of  wonderment  that  it  should  be  so  fair.  That 
red  fairness  was  the  shadow  on  the  horizon  of  Rosaleen 's  happi- 
ness. She  could  not  credit  all  at  once  that  Derry  had  no  retro- 
spective jealousy.  She  was  jealous  for  him,  of  him.  Already, 
in  these  first  weeks  after  the  return  to  Bangkok,  she  began  to 
doubt  whether  he  loved  her  with  one  tithe  of  the  love  she  felt 
for  him.  He  could  talk  of  it  so  easily;  she  could  hardly  talk 
of  it  at  all.  The  past,  of  which  neither  of  them  spoke,  seemed 
to  Rosaleen  to  be  with  them  all  the  time  in  the  house.  Derry 
played  with  the  baby,  and  her  own  love  for  the  child  grew  with 
its  growth ;  but  the  likeness  to  its  dead  father  was  as  an  accusing 
finger,  pointing  scorn  at  her.  She  would  cover  his  face  some- 
times, then  snatch  him  to  her  in  remorse.  She  was  a  gentle 
mother,  but  wifehood  was  her  crown  and  glory. 
14  205 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Notwithstanding  the  shadow,  she  was  more  able  now  to  play 
her  part  in  the  social  life  at  Bangkok.  Derry  taught  her  tennis, 
and  she  was  an  apt  pupil.  She  could  dance  as  lightly  as  the 
rest.  Flirtation  she  never  learned,  and  she  was  always  a  lit'tle 
shy  of  compliment,  and  chary  of  intimacy.  She  had  no  con- 
fidant, she  could  not  gossip  as  the  other  women  did.  The 
misconception  which  had  grown  up  about  her,  that  she  was 
proud,  that  she  gave  herself  airs,  had  just  this  much  foundation 
for  it.  Emma  and  Sydney  Biddle  were  the  only  friends  she  had, 
the  rest  were  acquaintances.  And,  as  she  was  Lady  Ranmore, 
and  titles  were  scarce,  although  snobs  were  always  plentiful, 
the  suppositious  exclusiveness  created  a  certain  amount  of 
enmity;  although  perhaps,  enmity  is  too  strong  a  word.  She 
stood  a  little  aloof  from  these  people,  and  they  from  her.  She 
was  invited  to  functions,  but  not  to  intimate  parties.  As  she 
was  so  much  happier  alone  with  Derry  than  in  any  society, 
large  or  small,  it  never  hurt  her  to  hear  she  had  been  left  out. 
That  was  the  only  effect  of  her  so-called  exclusiveness  until  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Frederick  Huxted  came  from  Turkey  to  Bangkok. 

Of  Frederick  Huxted  little  need  be  said,  except  that  he  had 
been  unfortunate  in  his  marriage,  as  all  the  men  might  con- 
sider themselves  unfortunate  who  had  married  one  of  the 
Ayscough  sisters.  Mossy  Leon  up  in  London,  who  had  married 
Ethel  Ayscough,  knew  how  to  find  compensations  for  any 
deficiencies  in  his  married  life.  Frederick  Huxted,  who  was 
in  the  Consular  Service,  had  no  compensation.  Every  appoint- 
ment that  he  had  was  inferior  to  the  last.  His  wife's  tongue 
rasped  his  chances,  it  left  some  unhealthy  places  on  his  character, 
and  the  character  itself  had  weakened  and  deteriorated  under 
its  wounds.  Frederick  Huxted  expected  Yokohama,  but  was 
given  Siam.  At  Bangkok  Mrs.  Frederick  Huxted  began  to 
have  grievances.  One  of  her  greatest  grievances  was  that 
Lady  Ranmore  had  not  called  upon  her,  as  she  should  have 
done. 

The  transcription  of  part  of  a  letter  received  by  Mrs.  Mossy 
Leon  will  give  the  gist  of  the  matter: 

"Ellaline  wrote  me  an  awfully  funny  account  of  your  aristo- 

206 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

cratic  dinner  party  last  year,  and  of  Lady  Ranmore,  who  drank 
her  soup  out  of  her  plate,  or  something  like  that.  Well,  strangely 
enough,  the  first  people  we  came  across  up  here  were  these 
very  Ranmores.  I  told  Mrs.  Biddle — she  is  the  wife  of  the  head 
of  the  English  Survey  Department,  rather  a  commonish  person 
— that  Lord  Ranmore  had  married  beneath  him.  But,  at  a  place 
like  this,  one  cannot  afford  to  be  as  particular  as  one  could  be 
at  home.  Of  course,  dear,  it  is  not  quite  the  same  with  you, 
having  married  a  Jew,  and  all  that.  I  didn't  mean  that  you 
should  be  more  particular.  In  fact,  I  told  Ellaline,  when  I 
answered  her  letter,  that  although  it  must  have  been  a  great 
shock  for  you,  and  quite  spoiled  your  party,  she  ought  not  to 
twit  you  about  it.  I  think  it  is  wonderful  who  you  get  to  come 
to  your  house,  considering.  But  about  these  Ranmores:  I  called 
upon  them  because  I  feel  that  in  my  position  I  am  bound  to 
show  a  certain  amount  of  civility  to  all  the  English  colony. 
Lord  Ranmore  is  in  the  Survey  Department.  She  has  not 
returned  my  call  yet,  but  what  can  one  expect  from  that  sort 
of  person?  I  hear,  by  the  way,  that  they  were  living  on  very 
bad  terms  before  Sydney  Biddle  contrived  a  sort  of  separation, 
and  sent  them  up  to  Petchaburi.  They  are  the  talk  of  the 
place  now  for  the  way  they  flaunt  having  made  up  their  differ- 
ences. They've  got  a  little  carroty  baby,  to  whom  he  is  quite 
devoted.  But  what  I  want  to  know  about  it  is,  who  she  was, 
and  why  they  are  so  poor.  They  have  quite  a  small  bungalow, 
less  than  half  a  dozen  coolies,  and  he  works  at  the  drawing 
office  of  the  Survey  Department  as  if  he  really  had  his  living  to 
earn." 

Ethel,  who  received  the  letter  on  the  eve  of  a  new  campaign 
in  the  London  season,  quite  appreciated  its  sisterliness;  but  she 
was  too  much  occupied  for  resentment.  Ethel  Leon  pursued 
the  "Season"  as  Lancelot  the  Holy  Grail.  She  was  often  in 
sight  of  the  treasure,  but  never  quite  came  up  to  it.  In  April 
the  menservants  had  fresh  liveries,  the  carriages  new  varnish, 
extra  horses  were  bought.  In  May  she  complained  to  her 
West  Kensington  acquaintances,  whom  she  invited  to  meet 
each  other,  that  "people  came  back  so  late  from  the  Riviera 

207 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

now."  The  private  view  at  the  Royal  Academy  gave  her 
some  opportunity  for  seeing  Society  people,  and  she  had  just 
imagination  enough  to  think  that  she  knew  the  well-known 
people  she  saw.  In  June  she  complained  of  the  new  habit 
of  "week-ending"  that  kept  people  out  of  London.  In  July  she 
would  announce  to  her  sisters  that  there  was  a  positive  rush 
of  engagements,  and  that  she  was  beginning  to  feel  over-tired. 
At  the  end  of  July,  however,  and  during  the  whole  month  of 
August,  her  prospects  always  improved.  Mossy  was  able  to 
bring  quite  smart  men  to  the  house — men  whose  wives  and 
daughters  had  already  left  town.  Ethel's  real  London  Season 
was  in  August.  But  she  never  ceased  to  hope  that  her  parties 
would  be  chronicled,  and  her  dresses  described  in  the  papers. 

Bianca's  letter  reached  her  in  May,  when  expectation  was  at 
its  highest,  and  her  good  temper  represented  her  hopes.  Mossy, 
too,  was  at  his  best  in  his  home-life  just  then,  for  he  had  dis- 
covered the  most  wonderful  little  dancer  in  the  world,  and  the 
wonderful  little  dancer  was  accepting  diamonds,  rings,  and 
bracelets  from  him.  At  such  times  Mossy  was  always  most 
liberal  and  most  amiable  to  his  wife. 

They  were  dining  alone  when  Bianca's  letter  came  from 
Siam.  Ethel  said  she  was  always  glad  of  a  night  off.  She 
had  many  of  these  nights  off,  and  spent  them  in  the  sedulous 
exercise  of  massage,  in  the  care  of  her  complexion,  in  going  to 
bed  early.  Mossy  generally  went  out  after  dinner.  Having  to 
see  Nat  Simons  on  business  was  a  convenient  excuse. 

There  had  been  no  subject  for  dispute  between  them  this 
evening.  Even  for  Mossy,  he  had  been  exceptionally  generous 
to  her  this  season.  She  had  not  been  presented  at  Court,  but 
she  had  a  beautiful  new  brooch  from  Carrier's.  They  were  at 
their  domestic  best. 

"I  had  a  letter  from  Bianca  to-day,"  she  began.  "They 
don't  seem  to  know  what  to  do  about  recognizing  the  Ranmores." 

"Why  on  earth  shouldn't  they  recognize  the  Ranmores? 
What's  the  matter  with  the  Ranmores?  He  is  a  charming 
fellow.  I  don't  know  when  I've  taken  such  a  fancy  to 
anyone." 

208 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Ethel  had  an  unfortunate  harsh  note  in  her  laughter,  a  high, 
cultivated  note  that  had  come  in  when  it  was  the  fashion  to 
shake  hands  in  imitation  of  the  village  pump.  She  did  not 
know  that  the  laughter  and  the  hand-shake  were  both  out  of 
date. 

"You  did  not  take  a  fancy  to  her,  did  you?  She  must  have 
been  a  servant,  I  should  think,  she  had  absolutely  no  style  at 
all!" 

"Good  God!  Style!  What  rot  you  talk.  She  was  abso- 
lutely one  of  the  most  beautiful  girls  I  have  ever  seen.  As  for 
being  a  servant,  she  is  the  daughter  of  the  Ranmore  land-agent, 
who  was  shot  when  collecting  rents.  I  heard  all  about  it  the 
other  day.  She  became  companion  to  Lady  Ranmore.  The 
trouble  with  the  family  was  that  she  and  Derry  did  a  bolt.  It 
was  immediately  after  the  cousin's  funeral,  when  the  Dowager, 
his  mother,  thought  that  everyone  should  have  been  wailing 
and  keening  for  Terence  in  chorus,  thinking  of  nothing  else  but 
him.  I  suppose  it's  just  possible  they  had  no  choice  about  it. 
But  that  view  of  the  case  does  not  seem  to  have  struck  anyone 
else.  ..." 

"I  wish  you  would  not  be  so  coarse." 

"Oh!  coarse,  is  it?  Well,  perhaps  you're  right.  Nature  is 
disgustingly  coarse,  too,  sometimes;  that's  why  I  hate  the  coun- 
try. Anyway,  he  married  her  as  soon  as  he  was  able.  I  expect 
ours  was  the  only  house  in  London  open  to  them  then.  But 
if  what  I  am  working  at  comes  off,  there  won't  be  anywhere 
they  can't  go  when  they  come  back." 

"What  are  you  working  at?" 

"There  is  a  fortune  down  at  that  place  of  Berry's.  There 
is  coal  enough  to  warm  the  whole  country.  I  can't  get  a  scut- 
tleful  out  without  the  old  dowager's  consent,  confound  her! 
But  Carruthers  can't  checkmate  me  for  ever." 

"Then  they'll  be  very  rich  some  day?  Bianca  writes  to 
know  why  they  are  so  poor." 

"They  are  so  poor  now  because  Derry  is  Don  Quixote,  and  a 
damned  clever  woman  has  got  hold  of  him." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

209 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Ask  Lady  Carrie  Carthew  what  becomes  of  half  Derry's 
money  to-day,  what  will  become  of  it  when  he  gets  hold  of  some 
more." 

"Lady  Carrie!" 

Mossy  was  always  a  little  incautious  in  his  talk.  He  had 
no  idea  of  making  mischief  when  he  told  his  wife  about  Derry 
and  Carrie  Carthew.  If  he  expatiated  on  the  theme  it  was  only 
because  he  was  so  fond  of  talking,  and  forgot  to  take  into  con- 
sideration the  character  of  his  audience.  The  Ranmores  were 
away,  and  he  never  dreamed  of  his  wife  writing  to  Bianca, 
betraying  the  secret  he  had  let  out.  Still  less  did  he  think  to 
what  use  Bianca  would  put  her  knowledge.  It  is  difficult  for 
a  man  to  gauge  the  length  to  which  a  malicious  woman  will  go 
to  revenge  a  slight,  fancied  or  real. 

Once  Ethel  had  started  him  on  the  subject,  Mossy  had  gone 
on  talking  about  the  Ranmores.  It  was  very  rarely  that  she 
listened  when  he  talked;  perhaps  that  made  him  incautious. 
Ethel  was  generally  thinking  about  herself  when  Mossy  talked 
to  her,  it  was  the  only  subject  upon  which  she  could  ever  really 
concentrate  her  mind.  His  wit  never  amused  his  wife.  She 
found  it  difficult  to  follow,  and  she  was  never  sure  it  was  quite 
good  form  to  be  amusing.  But  she  listened  when  he  talked 
about  Lady  Carrie  and  Lord  Ranmore.  She  was  glad  she  would 
be  able  to  impress  Bianca  with  her  knowledge  of  the  Ranmore 
affairs.  She  heard,  too,  from  Mossy,  of  the  ramifications  of 
the  Ranmore  estates,  of  the  widow's  jointure  that  "bled  it." 
He  talked  of  the  enormous  claims  that  were  being  put  forth  by 
Carruthers  on  behalf  of  the  Dowager  Lady  Ranmore.  The 
estate  was  not  entailed,  and  little  but  the  castle  went  with  the 
title.  It  seemed  Terence  had  been  in  the  habit  of  signing 
anything  that  was  put  before  him.  Carruthers,  under  the 
pretense  of  protecting  his  client,  had  so  complicated  matters 
that  a  lawsuit  was  almost  inevitable. 

"I'm  damned  if  she  isn't  claiming  against  us  for  every  stick 
that  has  been  stuck  into  the  ground  to  strengthen  a  sapling,  and 
every  nail  that  holds  up  a  rotten  beam.  It  seems  that  for  years 
her  one  hobby  was  to  improve  the  estate.  Now,  I  suppose 

210 


because  of  this  marriage,  her  one  hobby  is  to  ruin  it.  I  can't 
prospect  for  coal  because  she  has  sunk  a  shaft  and  done  a  few 
hundred  pounds'  worth  of  work,  getting  a  paper  from  her  son, 
her  own  son,  mind  you,  giving  her  exclusive  rights.  We  can't 
collect  the  rents  until  we  have  settled  her  claim,  because  Car- 
ruthers  has  issued  a  caveat,  and  every  tenant  has  had  notice  that 
there  is  an  action  pending,  and  they  are  not  to  pay  to  Derry's 
representative.  The  place  is  falling  again  into  rack  and  ruin. 
She  has  stopped  all  the  work  that  was  being  done.  She  is  living 
in  Dublin,  where  she  has  some  crack-brained  scheme  on  hand 
for  endowing  an  orphanage  to  bear  her  son's  name.  Mean- 
while, the  only  offer  I  can  get  from  her  is  to  rent  the  place  for 
a  week  in  every  year.  They  've  got  a  sort  of  mausoleum  in  the 
woods  there,  and  she  wants  to  go  and  pray  for  her  husband  and 
son.  I'm  going  to  stick  out  about  that;  it's  the  only  lever  I've 
got.  If  she  won't  give  up  the  coal  concession,  I'm  damned 
if  she  shall  pray.  They  have  not  got  Deny  to  deal  with  now." 

Ethel  had  a  gleam  of  intelligence. 

"But  you  can't  act  for  Lord  Ranmore?"  she  asked. 

"Why  can't  I?  I've  got  his  power  of  attorney.  You  don't 
suppose  I  took  a  hand  in  the  game  without  knowing  that  the 
chips  would  be  paid  for,  do  you?" 

When  the  brougham  was  announced,  and  Mossy  had  explained 
the  exigencies  of  a  billiard  handicap  at  his  club — Mossy  was 
always  most  explanatory  when  he  was  least  candid — when  the 
butler  had  helped  him  into  his  satin-lined  overcoat,  and  the 
footman  had  found  him  a  light  for  his  cigar,  Ethel  composed 
herself  to  answer  Bianca's  letter. 

Incidentally  it  is  worth  noting  that,  when  this  letter  reached 
Bangkok,  Rosaleen  had  still  not  returned  Mrs.  Frederick 
Huxted's  call. 

"My  dear,  I've  had  such  a  rush  of  people  this  week,  it  has 
been  difficult  to  find  a  moment  to  myself  in  which  to  answer 
your  letter.  People  are  back  later  than  ever  from  the  Riviera 
this  year;  but  Lady  Cowper  is  in  town,  and  the  Duchess  has 
passed  through.  I  saw  the  Lonsdales  the  other  day,  and  the 
Albemarles  ..." 

211 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Ethel  rarely  told  untruths,  she  had  seen  them  all. 

"Nearly  all  my  own  friends  are  back." 

This  non  sequitur  she  easily  permitted  herself.  "My  friends" 
were  words  that  were  often  on  Ethel  Leon's  lips,  and  on  the 
point  of  her  pen,  but  she  had  really  only  acquaintances,  and  of 
these  she  shed  many  annually,  ridding  herself  of  them  as  crus- 
taceans of  their  worn-out  shells. 

"And,  by  the  way,  Lady  Carrie  Carthew  is  in  London.  How 
funny  of  you  to  ask  what  becomes  of  the  Ranmore  rents.  I 
thought  everybody  knew  about  Lord  Ranmore  and  Lady 
Carrie.  But  then,  dear,  you  are  a  little  out  of  the  world  at 
Bangkok,  are  you  not  ?  How  dreadful  it  must  be  for  you  to  be 
without  any  fixed  home;  I  should  simply  hate  it.  I  had  my 
drawing-room  done  over  again  for  this  season,  the  walls  hung 
with  vieux-rose  silk,  set  into  white  panels,  carton  pierre  decora- 
tions, and  the  floor  parqueted.  It's  enormously  admired,  it 
was  done  by  the  best  firm  in  London;  they  have  a  Paris 
house,  too.  Mossy  has  given  me  some  wonderful  new  jewelry. 
Not  large  stones — large  stones  are  quite  out  of  fashion,  the 
setting  is  everything  this  year.  My  parure  is  all  from  Cartier  's. 
I'm  longing  to  show  it  to  you.  But  apropos  of  the  Ranmore 's, 
if  you  can  get  them  to  know  you,  I  strongly  advise  you  to  do  so. 
He  will  have  quite  a  large  fortune  one  day,  and  then  she  will  be 
received  everywhere.  Of  course,  if  ever  you  get  back  to  Lon- 
don I  shall  do  what  I  can  for  you,  and  introduce  you  to  some 
really  nice  people.  But  it  would  be  so  much  easier  if  Fred 
had  been  in  the  diplomatic  service.  I  saw  Ellaline  this  week. 
I  am  so  sorry  for  her;  her  menage  is  so  impossible  altogether. 
People  simply  won't  meet  stock-brokers.  I  can't  think  why. 
There  has  been  a  "slump,"  as  they  call  it,  and  Tom  is  very 
nearly  ruined;  they  are  talking  of  living  in  the  country  altogether. 
In  a  way,  I  rather  wish  they  would.  Of  course,  I  should  miss 
Ellaline,  but  I  hate  leaving  her  out  of  everything,  and  I  can't 
face  that  gray  panne  of  hers.  No  one  wears  panne  any  more. 
Dresses  date  so  this  season.  ." 


CHAPTER  XX 

THERE    is   a    comparatively   large    English    colony    at 
Bangkok,    but   almost   every   nation   has   its   consular 
representative.     A  babel  of  polyglot  tongues  is  heard 
in  the  streets,  not  only  by  the  side  of  the  mud-banks,  the  wharves, 
and  the  jetties,  where  the  floating  Asiatic  population  of  Chinese 
and  Malays,  Annamites  and  Siamese  dominate  the  river,  but 
up  in  the  town,  where  there  are  Javanese,  Singalese  and  Ben- 
galee, men  from  Bombay,  and  gem-dealers  from  Burmah. 

There  are  flagstaffs  of  many  nations  in  so-called  Consular 
Bangkok.  Consular  Bangkok  is  distinguished  by  its  veran- 
dahed  houses,  its  club,  and  tennis  and  cricket  grounds.  The 
palm  and  the  bamboo  dominate  the  gardens,  and  the  note  is 
of  the  higher  civilization,  the  civilization  of  hot  and  cold  baths 
and  electric  light.  Here  the  Stars  and  Stripes  are  conspicuous, 
and  the  Tricolor  floats  in  the  breeze.  The  Union  Jack  is 
unfurled  side  by  side  with  the  national  emblems  of  Denmark 
and  Germany;  Italy  runs  up  its  red,  white,  and  green  in  friendly 
rivalry  with  the  yellow  of  little  Holland. 

Many  people  had  called  on  Rosaleen  when  she  first  came 
to  Bangkok,  and  she  had  done  as  little  as  possible  toward 
returning  their  civilities.  Her  health,  however,  then  made  a 
certain  excuse,  and,  if  she  made  no  way  socially,  she  cannot  be 
said  to  have  excited  any  active  animosity.  That  she  was 
"exclusive,"  that  she  "kept  herself  to  herself,"  that  she  "gave 
herself  airs,"  had  been  the  worst  charges  leveled  against  her, 
and  even  from  these  she  had  been  protected  in  a  measure  by 
the  Sydney  Biddies.  As  far  as  it  is  possible  for  there  to  be  a 
head  to  such  a  heterogeneous  colony,  the  Sydney  Biddies  may 
be  said  to  have  occupied  that  post  in  Bangkok.  Their  house 
was  the  largest,  they  practised  the  most  lavish  hospitality. 

213 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Sydney's  position  was  better  established  than  that  of  any 
Englishman  working  under  the  Siamese  government. 

Unlike  the  Japanese,  the  Siamese  show  little  fidelity,  and 
less  gratitude,  in  dealing  with  the  Europeans  who,  in  subordinate 
or  superior  positions,  assist  in  the  administration  of  customs, 
education,  or  survey.  They  tire  quickly,  as  children  tire,  of 
anyone  who  possesses  a  shadow  of  authority,  a  suggestion  of 
superiority.  The  King  of  Siam  has  great  qualities,  but  his 
wife  is  the  gray  mare.  Novelty  is  what  she  looks  for  from 
the  representatives  of  a  new  and  strange  civilization,  and  to 
this  end  all  the  short  contracts,  or  engagements  without  con- 
tracts, are  freely  and  admittedly  adapted.  Sydney  Biddle  is 
perhaps  the  one  Englishman  for  whom  an  exception  has  been 
made;  but  both  the  King  and  Queen  have  a  genuine  affection 
for  him.  He  has  a  large  stake  in  the  country,  and  his  appoint- 
ment, although  ex-official,  is  in  the  nature  of  a  permanency. 

This  habit  of  the  Siamese  Government,  however,  is  necessary 
as  an  explanation  of  the  shifting  character  of  the  European 
colony.  When  the  Ranmores  left  for  Petchaburi,  there  was 
one  set  of  faces  to  be  seen  in  the  tennis  court,  and  the  cricket 
ground,  the  Sports  Club,  and  the  United  Club.  When  they 
returned,  there  was  quite  another.  And  the  personnel  of  the 
English  Consulate,  at  least,  had  certainly  not  been  improved  by 
the  advent  of  the  Frederick  Huxteds. 

Emma  Biddle  had  been  anxious,  when  she  first  began  to 
interest  herself  in  the  Ranmores,  that  Rosaleen  should  return 
the  cards  that  were  left  upon  her,  join  in  the  gaieties,  and  take 
her  place  in  the  society  which  at  that  time,  at  least,  was  fairly 
pleasant  and  congenial.  But  Rosaleen  had  failed,  at  first,  to 
respond  to  Emma  Biddle 's  anxiety.  Emma  had  forgiven  her, 
and  perhaps  been  a  little  flattered  at  her  failure,  which  yet 
meant  a  personal  success.  After  the  return  from  Petchaburi 
everything  was  easier.  The  great  social  function  at  Bangkok 
is  the  tennis.  Rosaleen,  no  longer  standing  aloof,  now  took  her 
place  in  the  team,  playing  in  tournaments  and  gymkhanas. 
There  are  dances  given  at  the  Club,  and  now  Rosaleen  also 
danced.  The  people  she  had  hardly  known,  but  who  had  been 

214 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

there  on  her  first  arrival,  accepted  her>  as  it  were,  on  her  own 
terms.  If  she  would  play  games  with  them  now,  they  were 
quite  satisfied  that  she  had  not  meant  to  snub  them  in  the 
past.  And  Deny  remained  as  popular  as  ever. 

Among  the  new-comers  the  same  tolerance  was  generally 
observed,  but  the  Frederick  Huxteds  complicated  the  position. 
Mrs.  Huxted  had  expected  everyone  to  call  upon  her,  and  in 
this  semi-colonial  milieu  her  pretensions  were  accepted  without 
any  very  close  scrutiny. 

The  Ranmores  were  the  only  English,  or  Irish,  titled  people 
settled  in  Bangkok  at  the  moment.  After  waiting  a  month  or 
so  for  Lady  Ranmore  to  call  upon  her,  Mrs.  Frederick  Huxted 
had  summoned  her  supposititious  reminiscences  of  Court 
etiquette,  and  made  the  first  visit. 

Rosaleen  had  not  meant  to  snub  Mrs.  Frederick  Huxted. 
She  hardly  knew  the  meaning  of  the  word,  and,  notwithstand- 
ing the  erroneous  opinion  that  had  got  about,  she  had,  of  course, 
no  social  pretensions  at  all.  She  had,  however,  predilections 
and  superstitions.  Unfortunately  Mrs.  Huxted  antagonized 
her  in  both.  She  met  her  at  the  Club,  at  some  amateur  the- 
atrical performances  got  up  by  the  Biddies,  and  at  dinner, 
before  the  visit  was  paid  which  was  fated  never  to  be 
returned. 

Mrs.  Huxted  was  the  only  one  of  the  Ayscough  sisters  whose 
pretentions  did  not  include  beauty.  She  was  the  eldest  of  the 
family.  Having  lived  since  her  marriage  in  hot  climates,  she 
had  developed  angularity  of  figure,  and  sallowness  of  complexion. 
In  addition  she  had  prominent  teeth,  and  a  high  aquiline  nose. 
She  was  proud  of  her  aristocratic  appearance,  and  had  no  doubt 
of  her  manners.  But  she  was  really  an  ill-natured  woman  who 
would  have  set  any  provincial,  or  cathedral,  English  town  by 
the  ears,  and  who  seemed  to  have  missed  her  vocation  in  life  in 
not  being  given  this  opportunity.  She  had  a  way  of  querying 
people's  position,  means,  and  conduct.  Her  own  alone  seemed 
to  her  to  merit  no  animadversion.  When  she  called  on  Rosa- 
leen, she  found  fault  with  the  approach  to  the  bungalow,  and  the 
bridge  that  connected  it  with  the  highway;  and  she  wondered 

215 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

that  Lady  Ranmore  could  content  herself  in  such  a  poky  place. 
Rosaleen  loved  her  home,  and  thought  it  very  beautiful  and 
perfect.  She  was  sorry  her  vsitor  did  not  like  it,  and  thought 
it  strange  that  she  should  mention  it. 

Mrs.  Huxted,  who  was  a  childless  woman,  dogmatized  as  to 
how  children  should  be  brought  up.  She  asked  to  see  the  baby, 
but  when  it  was  brought  in  by  Agnes,  the  Siamese  convert  who 
had  been  recommended  to  Rosaleen  from  the  Missionaries,  she 
found  nothing  to  say  but  that  he  looked  delicate,  and  would 
probably  prove  difficult  to  rear. 

"You  ought  to  have  a  Chinese  nurse.  The  only  servants 
that  are  any  good  out  here  are  the  Chinese."  Although  she 
had  been  at  Bangkok  less  than  a  month,  Mrs.  Frederick  already 
considered  herself  an  authority  on  the  complicated,  curious 
country. 

"The  Siamese  are  sweet  and  kind  to  children,"  Rosaleen 
answered.  "Look  at  them  with  their  own!" 

And,  indeed,  one  of  the  sights  of  Bangkok,  in  the  streets,  and 
on  and  near  the  river  banks,  are  the  swarms  of  brown-eyed, 
chubby,  well-nourished,  native  youngsters.  The  ill-treatment 
of  a  child  is  unknown  among  the  Siamese;  fathers  as  well  as 
mothers  take  a  share  in  carrying  and  tending  the  babies,  their 
affection  to  their  offspring  being  one  of  the  most  prominent 
national  characteristics,  and  dominating  all  classes.  But  Mrs. 
Huxted  said: 

"  You  may  think  so!  Perhaps  you  haven't  seen  them  give 
their  babies  cigarettes  to  smoke?  I  have.  I  saw  a  boy,  who 
couldn't  have  been  four  years  old,  toddling  down  the  streets  on 
his  little  fat  legs  with  a  great  brown  cigarette  in  his  mouth  that 
made  me  sick  to  look  at.  But  perhaps  you  don't  mind  your 
boy  learning  to  smoke  early  ?"  And  the  laugh  came  again. 

Rosaleen  was  too  full  of  all  her  happiness  just  now  to  take 
Mrs.  Huxted  very  seriously. 

"Oh!  Agnes  won't  teach  my  baby  to  smoke  just  yet,"  she 
answered  quickly.  "He  is  only  eight  months  old,  not  four 
years." 

"And  the  native  servants  are  such  terrible  liars.  He  will 

216 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

have  hardly  learned  to  speak  before  she  will  teach  him  to  tell 
untruths." 

Rosaleen  had  a  secret  sympathy  with  the  Siamese  natives. 
She  had  found  great  happiness  at  Bangkok,  and  perhaps  that 
softened  her  judgment.  What  Mrs.  Huxted  called  lying,  she 
and  Derry  had  agreed  to  regard  as  merely  a  habit  of  circumlo- 
cution. And  the  natives  were  only  idle  when  they  were  not  set 
to  work.  Derry  had  two  Siamese  clerks  under  him  in  the 
office,  and  could  not  speak  sufficiently  highly  of  them.  She  did 
not  think  they  were  vicious.  As  for  being  irreligious,  never 
were  people  so  indefatigable  in  doing  honors  to  their  gods. 
The  Buddhists'  festivals  were  innumerable;  and  neither  a 
Siamese  gentleman,  nor  a  working  man,  would  omit  to  join  in 
them.  Mrs.  Huxted  attacked,  and  Rosaleen  defended,  with 
warmth  and  growing  spirit. 

"Ah,  well,  have  it  your  own  way,"  said  Mrs.  Huxted  at  last, 
turning  from  the  subject  as  if  it  tired  her,  and  she  really  could 
not  condescend  to  argue  on  it  any  further.  Among  her  other 
agreeable  ways,  she  had  the  habit  of  inferring  that  any  subject 
under  discussion  was  so  much  better  understood  by  herself  than 
by  her  companion,  that  it  was  idle  and  waste  of  time,  to  go  into 
detail  concerning  it.  "We  won't  talk  any  more  about  the 
Siamese.  When  you've  lived  in  the  East  as  long  as  I  have, 
you'll  begin  to  understand  the  Oriental  character.  How  do 
you  get  on  with  the  people  here  ?  As  far  as  I  have  seen  of  them 
they  are  not  very  interesting.  Mr.  Mitchison  is  a  gentleman, 
of  course.  His  sister,  Lady  Fairbanks,  was  in  India  when  we 
were  there.  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  her." 

Rosaleen  could  have  forgiven  her  visitor's  remarks  about  her 
house,  her  baby,  and  the  native  servants;  but,  when  she  attacked 
the  Biddies,  she  found  forgiveness  more  difficult.  Rosaleen's 
loyalty  was  a  part  of  her  nature. 

"Then,  there  is  that  vulgar  little  woman,  Mrs.  Biddle,"  Mrs. 
Huxted  went  on.  "I  can't  think  how  she  has  got  such  a  hold 
here.  She  can  never  have  been  in  any  society  at  all.  Colonial- 
born,  I  suppose.  Do  you  know,  I  met  her  this  morning  without 
any  gloves  on,  carrying  a  basket,  and  no  end  of  parcels!  I 

217 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

wonder  what  the  natives  think  of  her?"  Mrs.  Huxted  laughed. 
"I  hear,  too,  that  she  has  Madame  de  la  Poer  at  her  house.  I 
suppose  she  doesn't  know  any  better.  She  is  an  acquaintance 
of  yours,  isn't  she?" 

"She  is  my  friend,"  Rosaleen  said,  with  heightened  color. 
"And  it's  proud  I  am  to  call  her  my  friend.  All  day  long  she 
does  kind  things,  and  thinks  kind  thoughts." 

"Oh!  well,  everyone  to  their  taste.  For  myself,  I  like  to 
associate  with  ladies  and  gentlemen.  I  was  brought  up  that 
way,  you  know." 

Rosaleen  could  not  control  her  indignation  during  the  rest 
of  that  visit.  She  took  a  real  dislike  to  her  visitor.  There  was 
no  question  of  snubbing  her.  It  was  simply  a  case  of  personal 
antipathy,  and  this  was  nothing  unusual  where  Mrs.  Huxted 
was  concerned.  But,  of  course,  she  never  recognized  the  cause 
of  the  treatment  she  received. 

Because  Mrs.  Huxted  had  spoken  disparagingly  of  the  Biddies, 
Rosaleen  told  Deny  she  would  not  return  her  call.  Deny  said 
she  was  quite  right;  but  then,  Deny  said  everything  she  did  was 
quite  right!  It  was  inevitable  they  should  meet  at  the  Club  and 
elsewhere.  But  Rosaleen  avoided  these  meetings  as  far  as 
possible;  although  she  was  habitually  reticent,  she  was  not  an 
adept  at  concealing  her  feelings. 

Long  before  Ethel's  letter  reached  Siam,  a  positive  dislike 
had  sprung  up  between  the  two  women.  As  far  as  Rosaleen 
was  concerned,  she  merely  wished  to  avoid  the  other.  But 
Bianca  Huxted  was  really  of  a  malevolent  disposition.  It  was, 
however,  Rosaleen  herself  who  made  the  malevolence  active. 
Emma  Biddle  was  standing  with  Rosaleen  on  one  occasion,  and 
it  seemed  hateful  to  the  girl  that  Mrs.  Huxted  should  greet  Mrs. 
Biddle  as  if  she  had  never  spoken  disparagingly  of  her.  She 
resented  that  Emma,  or  Sydney,  should  waste  their  smiles  or 
their  kindness  on  such  a  woman. 

"I  suppose  one  must  not  expect  punctuality  in  social  obser- 
vances in  these  wilds,  but  it  is  more  than  three  weeks  since  I 
left  my  cards,  and  surely  it's  almost  time  that  they  were 
returned  ?"  Bianca  began  with  an  ?«2ectation  of  careless  geniality. 

218 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"You  can  have  them  back,"  Rosaleen  said,  shortly,  turning 
away  from  her. 

Even  Emma  was  shocked  at  her,  and  stayed  to  explain  away 
the  words.  Mrs.  Huxted  was  quite  ready  to  be  superficially 
convinced,  and  to  accept  Emma's  explanation.  But,  of  course, 
she  stored  it  up  against  Lady  Ranmore. 

"How  could  you  say  such  a  thing?"  Emma  asked  Rosaleen. 

"She  is  a  hateful  woman.  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  and  Mr. 
Biddle  so  good  to  her.  Look,  if  he  isn't  takin'  her  out!  And 
she  with  the  bitter  tongue  ..."  Rosaleen  could  not  control 
her  indignation. 

"Mrs.  Huxted  certainly  does  contrive  to  make  herself  ex- 
traordinarily disliked,"  Emma  answered;  "and  she  seems  to 
possess  as  much  ill-feeling  as  she  inspires.  She  is  for  ever  calling 
upon  Sydney  to  complain  of  something  or  somebody.  But  it  was 
a  dreadful  thing  to  say,  you  really  will  have  to  call  after  that." 
And  then,  for  she  was  compact  of  charity,  Mrs.  Biddle  added, 
"I  see  you  have  taken  a  dislike  to  her.  But  don't  you  think  we 
never  know  what  other  people's  troubles  are?  Perhaps  her 
temper  has  been  spoiled  by  some  personal  or  private  worry, 
and  if  we  knew  everything  we  should  only  be  sorry  for  her. 
What  has  she  been  saying  that  annoyed  you?" 

"She  warned  me  Agnes  would  give  Sonny  cigarettes  to  smoke 
when  my  back  was  turned." 

"Or  betel-nuts  to  chew!"  Mrs.  Sydney's  laugh  was  a  very 
different  affair  from  that  cackle  in  which  Mrs.  Fred,  was  wont 
to  indulge.  It  cleared  the  air.  Rosaleen  laughed,  too,  a  little 
doubtfully. 

"I  know  I  ought  not  to  allow  myself  to  get  vexed  with  her. 
If  I  had  the  second  sight,  I  should  say  I  feel  as  if  she  had  'ill- 
wished'  me,  or  would  do  so.  For,  sure  I've  an  uneasy  feeling 
when  she  is  at  the  Club." 

"Call  on  her,  and  get  it  over." 

"I  don't  mean  to  go  at  all,  and  that  is  the  truth  of  it." 

"  She  is  very  punctilious  about  that  sort  of  thing.  One  should 
never  make  an  enemy  of  a  woman  with  a  bitter  tongue." 

Emma's  worldly  wisdom  was  a  very  shallow  affair,  represented 

219 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

by  a  few  cliches  such  as  this.  She  sympathized  with  Rosaleen's 
desire  to  avoid  Mrs.  Fred  Huxted;  that  particular  feeling  was 
so  very  general. 

She  did  not  press  the  point  of  the  visit,  beyond  offering  to  call 
for  her  one  day  if  she  meant  to  make  it. 

Rosaleen  changed  the  conversation.  She  went  home  quite 
early. 

The  first  few  months  after  their  return  to  Bangkok,  Rosaleen 
was  living  in  the  effulgence  of  a  rainbow.  Mrs.  Frederick 
Huxted's  malevolence  could  not  really  obscure  it.  All  the  days 
were  rainbow-tinted  for  Rosaleen.  What  clouds  lay  on  the 
horizon  were  clouds  that  had  blown  over.  Would  they  ever 
gather  again  now  that  the  arc  of  many  colors  was  set  as  a  promise 
in  the  sky  ?  Meteorologists  know,  but  Rosaleen  was  no  weather 
prophet.  She  disliked,  and  avoided  Mrs.  Huxted,  but  saw  no 
menace  in  her. 

Nor  did  she  see  menace  in  the  English  mail  which  brought 
that  letter  from  Ethel  to  her  sister,  and  to  Deny  a  big  square 
envelope  with  a  scrawling  handwriting,  and  the  crest  of  a  red 
eagle  with  a  fish  in  its  mouth.  He  had  had  such  letters  before, 
but  he  never  showed  them  to  her.  Once  he  had  said  carelessly, 
"  Oh!  that's  from  Lady  Carrie."  He  had  torn  it  open,  and  read  it 
with  perturbed  brow.  Afterward  he  had  never  read  similar  letters 
in  her  presence,  but,  if  one  came,  he  would  separate  it  from  the 
others  and  put  it  in  his  pocket,  to  read  at  leisure,  she  supposed. 
Once  she  asked  him  who  was  Lady  Carrie,  and  he  had  answered 
hastily: 

"  Oh,  Lady  Carrie  Carthew.  She  was  an  old  friend  of  .  .  ." 
And  then  he  had  stopped  abruptly  as  if  he  did  not  care  to  pursue 
the  subject.  If  she  had  curiosity,  she  never  showed  it  until  she 
heard  the  name  on  Mrs.  Huxted's  lips. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  English  mail  had  little  interest  for 
Rosaleen.  She  was  too  happy  to  be  curious.  She  knew,  of 
course,  that  affairs  were  not  yet  settled  at  home,  that  Deny  was 
Lord  of  Ranmore,  but  was  being  kept  out  of  his  own.  But, 
like  the  Lady  of  "Burleigh  Hall  by  Stamford  town,"  she  rejoiced 
in  his  present  lowly  estate.  To  share  his  cottage,  represented 

220 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

in  this  instance  by  the  squat  little  bungalow,  to  work  for  him 
in  the  home  he  had  given  her,  was  happiness  enough.  She 
was  very  vague  about  everything  that  stood  between  him 
and  his  occupation  of  Ranmore.  Material  things  become 
vague  when  one  is  living  in  the  arc  of  a  rainbow.  Mrs.  Huxted, 
however,  was  one  of  the  material  things  that  refused  to  remain 
vague;  she  made  quite  a  little  round  of  visits  on  the  strength 
of  her  letter  from  Ethel.  She  dropped  a  careless  hint  here, 
and  a  careful  one  there.  Several  people  learned,  or  thought 
that  they  learned,  through  these  means,  what  was  the  nature  of 
the  entanglement  that  kept  Lord  Ranmore  from  his  native 
land.  Of  course,  it  was  interesting  gossip.  Ill-natured  gossip 
is  interesting  to  ordinary  minds;  and  the  large  majority  of 
minds  are  very  ordinary.  Gossip,  before  Mrs.  Huxted  embit- 
tered it,  had  said  Lord  Ranmore 's  sojourn  here  was  due  to  the 
want  of  money,  that  the  estate  had  not  come  to  him  uninvolved. 
Now  they  heard  that  this  was  not  the  whole  truth,  that  there 
was  a  woman  in  the  case.  Was  it  something  in  the  nature  of 
blackmail?  It  really  sounded  interesting.  Mrs.  Huxted  made 
the  most  of  it.  She  derived  no  personal  benefit  from  her 
mysterious  hints  and  innuendoes;  but  then,  the  women  who 
disseminate  ill-natured  gossip  never  do  derive  any  personal 
benefit  from  their  hobby.  They  are  like  the  pariah  dogs  who 
nose  out  offal,  and  feed  on  it.  They  are  just  doing  what  their 
temperaments  demand;  it  is  the  call  of  nature  they  are  obeying. 

It  was  on  the  Premane  grounds,  where  Rosaleen  had  taken 
her  baby  to  see  the  kite-flying,  that  Mrs.  Huxted  found  her 
great  opportunity. 

Kite-flying  is  one  of  the  many  Siamese  national  pastimes. 
The  Siamese  are  really  a  nation  of  children.  Historians  have  told 
us  of  a  Cabinet  Meeting  being  deserted,  and  finally  abandoned, 
when  a  Minister  exhibited  a  new  toy  that  had  just  been  sent  out 
to  him.  The  interest  in  the  new  toy  quite  superseded  the  affairs 
of  state.  First  one,  and  then  another,  member  of  the  Cabinet 
began  to  play  with  it.  There  was  no  business  even  attempted 
that  day,  and  the  representatives  of  foreign  governments  went 
away  wondering.  This  nation  of  children  flies  kites  from  Feb- 
15  221 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

ruary  to  April,  when  the  strong  south  wind  helps  the  game, 
and  makes  it  irresistible.  As  well  expect  an  inhabitant  of  the 
fen  country  to  abandon  skating  on  the  rare  occasion  of  a  frost, 
as  the  Siamese  gentlemen  to  abstain  from  kite-flying  when  the 
south  wind  blows  over  the  Premane  grounds.  This  kite-flying 
is  a  more  elaborate  affair  than  our  poor  English  imitation.  It 
is  no  question  of  how  high  the  kites  can  go,  or  how  long  they  can 
stay  in  the  air.  It  is  a  contest  between  kite-fliers,  a  chase  for 
supremacy.  The  endeavor  is  to  entangle,  and  bring  to  the 
ground,  the  kite  of  an  antagonist.  Immense  ingenuity  and 
skill  are  employed,  and  thousands  of  spectators  assemble  to 
watch  the  mimic  battle.  For  hours  at  a  time  the  game  pro- 
ceeds. It  is  impossible,  watching  the  Siamese  gentlemen  at 
play,  to  realize  why  they  should  be  accounted  indolent;  they 
certainly  spare  no  energy  on  their  favorite  pastime. 

Rosaleen  and  her  baby  watched  the  Siamese  gentlemen 
flying  their  kites,  and  the  crowd  following  them  breathlessly. 
She  was  so  happy  that  it  seemed  natural  other  people  should 
be  happy  too.  She  had  never  seen  a  football  match  at  the 
Crystal  Palace,  nor  International  cricket  at  Lord's,  and  the 
kite-flying  held  her  spellbound.  One  or  another  of  her  acquaint- 
ances came  up  and  spoke  to  her,  but  she  did  not  detain  them. 
Watching  baby  watch  the  kites,  and  following  them  herself 
with  her  eyes,  proved  sufficiently  absorbing. 

It  was  not  until  Mrs.  Huxted  deliberately  stood  by  her  side, 
and  began  to  talk  to  her,  that  she  woke  up  to  her  annoyance  at 
the  interruption.  Mrs.  Huxted  began  the  conversation  char- 
acteristically. Long  before  this  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to 
ignore  the  unreturned  call,  and  the  attitude  of  Lady  Ranmore 
toward  her.  She  made  a  point  of  speaking  to  her  in  public. 
Rosaleen  had  grown  used,  although  never  reconciled,  to  that. 
But  Rosaleen  had  usually  Emma  Biddle  with  her,  or  Derry. 
To-day  she  was  alone  here  with  the  baby  in  her  arms.  She 
was  holding  him  up  to  see  the  kites,  when  Mrs.  Huxted  came  up 
to  her.  Mrs.  Huxted  rejoiced  in  her  opportunity.  There  was 
no  one  to  protect  Rosaleen,  and  from  women  like  Bianca  Hux- 
ted the  whole  world  needs  protection. 

222 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

She  opened  her  attack  by  commenting  upon  Rosaleen  having 
the  baby  in  her  arms  while  the  native  nurse  stood  by,  enjoying 
the  show  unburdened. 

"Turning  nursemaid,  Lady  Ranmore?"  she  began  with  her 
hard  laugh.  "I  should  have  thought  the  heat  was  enough, 
without  doing  servant's  work.  I'm  sure  I'm  almost  over- 
powered with  it.  It's  a  disgusting  climate!  Not  that  he  can 
be  much  of  a  weight.  He  is  beginning  to  look  a  little  peaky, 
I  see?  It  is  quite  impossible  to  bring  up  European  children 
in  the  East,  the  mortality  is  enormous." 

Rosaleen  held  the  baby  close  in  her  arms.  He  was  really 
a  beautiful  baby,  without  a  trace  of  delicacy  about  him.  He 
wore  no  hat,  and  he  held  his  little  head,  running  over  with  red- 
gold  curls,  as  erect  as  if  he  had  been  an  Irish  king.  That  is 
what  Deny  said  about  him,  and  the  description  was  good. 
For  his  head  was  set  royally  on  his  shoulders,  and  from  under 
the  wide  baby  brows  the  blue  eyes  smiled  confidentially  at  all 
the  world.  Little  Sonny,  as  they  called  him,  did  not  know  how 
to  be  shy  with  strangers,  all  the  native  servants  were  his  subjects, 
everybody  brought  him  offerings  of  toys  and  sweets.  He  even 
smiled  on  Mrs.  Huxted,  and  would  have  made  to  kiss  her  but 
that  Rosaleen  clasped  him  jealously  and  quickly  in  her  arms. 

"It's  not  delicate  he  is  at  all.  He  sleeps  the  night  through, 
he  hardly  ever  cries.  He's  his  mother's  pet,  that's  what  he 
is."  She  rubbed  her  face  against  his. 

"I  wonder  you  don't  dress  him  in  the  native  dress.  All 
that  white  embroidery  must  help  to  pull  him  down." 

Rosaleen  made  his  white  silk  pelisses  herself,  daintily  setting 
them  with  lace  and  embroidery. 

"It's  Chinese  silk,"  she  said.  "Mr.  Biddle  got  it  for  me, 
and  it's  floss  silk  I  use  to  sew  it;  it's  no  weight  at  all." 

"I  suppose  you  are  thinking  of  taking  him  home  soon?" 

"We  are  not  making  any  plans." 

She  could  not  move  away,  there  was  not  excuse.  She  could 
not  refuse  to  answer  when  she  was  spoken  to.  She  had  no 
legitimate  quarrel,  or  cause  for  dispute.  She  could  hardly 
even  actively  resent  that  Mrs.  Huxted  found  Mrs.  Biddle  com- 

223 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

mon,  for  the  Biddies  themselves  were  on  quite  friendly  terms 
with  her. 

They  stood  and  watched  the  kite-flying  together,  but  Mrs. 
Huxted  contrived  to  take  all  the  amusement  and  gaiety  out  of 
the  scene.  Standing  there,  unwelcome,  she  poured  into  Rosa- 
leen's  reluctant  ears  that  the  Siamese  were  all  liars  and  thieves, 
idle,  vicious,  and  irreligious.  She  jeered  at  their  many  festivals, 
exaggerated  their  passion  for  gambling,  spoke  of  their  decaying 
buildings,  and  decadent  spirit. 

"Ah,  well,  I  see  you  don't  agree  with  me.  You  never  did, 
I  know.  But  I  am  so  much  more  experienced  than  you,  my 
dear.  You  think  that  child  is  looking  well,  for  instance;  while 
I  know  that  it  is  probably  fever  makes  his  eyes  so  unnaturally 
bright." 

Here  rang  out  her  harsh  cackle  of  laughter. 

"But  I'll  leave  you  with  your  illusions."  The  note  of  the 
laugh  held  mischief,  it  was  as  the  cry  of  the  hawk  when  it 
swoops;  the  swoop  came  swiftly.  She  made  as  if  she  would  say 
good-bye  and  be  off,  but  she  had  her  arrow  to  plant;  that  object- 
ive had  never  been  out  of  her  sight.  "And,  after  all,  I  don't 
wonder  you  want  to  make  out  the  child  is  not  suffering  from 
the  climate.  Lord  Ranmore  had  much  better  be  kept  out  of 
Lady  Carrie  Carthew's  way  for  the  present.  I  heard  he  was 
being  blackmailed,  but  one  never  knows  the  whole  truth  in 
these  cases — I  suppose  he  was  very  infatuated?  That  is  the 
worst  of  these  society  women;  once  they  have  established  a  hold 
they  are  so  impossible  to  shake  off.  Why,  my  dear,  you  are 
looking  quite  pale!  I  hope  I  have  not  been  indiscreet.  I  thought 
it  was  such  an  open  secret.  ..." 

Rosaleen  was  a  little  too  young  to  be  a  match  for  such  an 
enemy,  and  in  the  immediate  first  moment  she  was  too  stricken 
to  be  able  to  act.  She  had  so  much  imagination,  that  the  very 
moment  the  words  were  spoken  she  could  see  the  letters  that 
came  to  him  by  the  English  mail;  she  could  envisage  a  lady, 
noble  and  high-born,  with  all  the  graces  she  lacked;  she  could 
even  remember  to  have  heard  the  name.  Yes!  Derry  had 
visited  a  Lady  Carrie  while  they  were  in  those  lodgings  in  Albany 

224 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Street.  Mrs.  Leon's  dinner-party,  too — surely  she  had  some 
association  there!  Yes!  At  dinner  Mossy  had  asked  her  if 
she  knew  Lady  Carrie  Carthew.  She  turned  pale  as  she  stood 
there  in  the  sun,  her  eyes  still  mechanically  following  the  kites. 

"My  sister — you  know  my  sister? — wrote  me  she  supposed 
it  was  on  account  of  Lady  Carrie  Carthew  you  were  staying 
away.  But  I  would  not  allow  any  woman  to  keep  me  out  of 
my  own  country!"  Here  came  in  again  that  hard  cackle  of 
laughter.  "And  in  the  interests  of  the  child,  I  really  should 
advise  you  to  reconsider  your  decision  to  stay  on.  I  must  be 
going  now.  Fred  is  waiting  for  me.  Good-bye,  dear  Lady 
Ranmore." 

The  child  in  her  arms  prevented  the  necessity  of  shaking 
hands. 

"Ta-ta,  baby!  Don't  let  your  mother  sacrifice  your  health 
for  any  woman." 

She  made  a  peck  at  the  baby,  but  Rosaleen  drew  him  back 
quickly. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  young  man,  I'm  not  going  to  kiss  you. 
He  has  a  little  temper  of  his  own,  hasn't  he?  You  have  not 
paid  me  that  visit  you  owe  me,  by  the  way.  But  I  suppose  I 
must  not  expect  Mayfair  manners  in  Siam." 

The  last  word  or  two  were  hardly  heard.  All  the  gaiety  and 
laughter  had  gone  from  the  scene.  Now  the  south  wind  carried 
sorrow,  and  the  brown  native  faces  were  as  clouds  before  the 
sun.  Rosaleen  had  answered  nothing.  In  truth,  she  no  longer 
saw  Mrs.  Huxted  standing  there.  It  was  not  the  woman 
behind  the  words,  but  only  the  words  themselves,  that  remained, 
like  mosquitoes.  Rosaleen  heard  them  as  one  hears  the  winged 
insects  of  the  night,  the  precursory  tingle  before  the  inevitable 
sting.  She  felt  all  that  when  she  fled  the  Premane  ground, 
bearing  the  boy  lightly  on  her  arms.  She  wanted  to  run  away 
from  those  poison  laden  words,  but  they  pursued  her,  pursued 
her  all  the  way  home  while  she  sat  by  the  syce's  side,  trying  to 
avoid  her  thoughts  and  memories  being  stung.  Her  mosquito- 
net  was  Derry's  loving  looks;  she  was  hurrying  back  to  them; 
but  it  was  beneath  the  net  the  mosquitoes  had  lodged. 

225 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ROSALEEN  saw  Deny  watching  for  her  from  the  ve- 
randa as  she  approached  home.  His  long  legs  covered 
the  ground  quickly.  He  lifted  the  boy  from  her  arms 
and  gave  him  to  Agnes.  , 

"How  late  you  are!  Here  have  I  been  all  alone  by  myself 
for  the  last  ten  minutes.  I'd  begun  to  think  it  was  deserting 
me  you'd  been  for  some  fine  Siamese  gentleman.  But  it's 
tired  you're  looking  and  hot."  His  tone  was  solicitous,  his 
arm  went  around  her  waist.  "I  shan't  let  you  go  about  by 
yourself  if  you  come  back  to  me  like  this.  Does  anything  ail 
you,  mavourneen?  or  is  it  only  your  tea  you're  wanting?" 

What  was  the  use  of  telling  him  she  had  been  stung?  Was 
not  his  solicitude  a  cure  for  her  wound?  She  did  not  know 
then  that  mosquito  bites  have  a  tendency  to  re-inflame  and 
fester  unless  radically  cured.  Candor  might  have  helped  to 
that  radical  cure,  but  the  Celt  in  her  prohibited  candor. 

"I'm  only  tired.  I'll  be  myself  again  when  I  have  had  my 
tea.  I  held  him  up  to  see  the  kites.  ..."  She  told  Deny 
all  about  the  kite-flying. 

"And  did  you  meet  the  Biddies?" 

"No,  but  I  met  the  Carews  and  the  Fotheringays."  Now 
she  remembered  all  those  who  had  spoken  to  her  before  Mrs. 
•Huxted  had  darkened  the  day. 

Afterward,  when  she  was  completely  rested,  had  had  dinner, 
and  was  sitting  beside  Deny  again  on  the  veranda  in  the  cool 
of  the  evening,  when  it  was  dark,  and  he  could  not  see  her  face, 
she  said,  "Mrs.  Huxted  came  up  and  spoke  to  me." 

"And  you  did  not  appreciate  the  attention,"  Deny  interjected, 
laughingly,  taking  his  pipe  from  his  mouth.  "It  isn't  like  you, 
Rosaleen,  to  dislike  anyone  as  you  dislike  that  woman.  It's 

226 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

surprised  at  you  I  am  for  taking  her  so  seriously.     What  did 
she  say  to  you  to-day?" 

Rosaleen  waited  a  minute  or  two  before  she  answered.  She 
wanted  to  tell  him  what  Mrs.  Huxted  had  said  about  Lady 
Carrie  Carthew;  but  it  proved  impossible.  She  only  said: 

"She  was  telling  me  of  the  letters  she'd  had  from  her  sister, 
Mrs.  Leon;  it  seems  they  are  wondering  why  you  are  staying 
on  here — that  is  what  Mrs.  Huxted  told  me.  And  she  said  baby 
was  looking  thin  and  peaky,  and  she  was  sure  the  climate  didn  't 
agree  with  him,  and  that  there  was  a  great  mortality  among 
English  children  here." 

Derry  laughed  again  before  he  replaced  the  pipe  in  his  mouth. 
"She  seems  to  have  been  bent  on  making  herself  thoroughly 
agreeable.  But  you  know  the  boy's  as  fit  as  a  fiddle,  so  she 
didn't  vex  you,  did  she?" 

Rosaleen  answered  shortly,  "Yes,  she  vexed  me." 

"And  it's  you  that's  foolish,  then,"  he  said  very  tenderly, 
drawing  her  closer  to  him,  in  spite  of  the  pipe,  and  making  her 
rest  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  "It's  very  likely  she  has  her 
own  troubles,  and  that  makes  her  spiteful." 

"That's  what  Emma  Biddle  says." 

"It's  only  people  like  you  and  me,  and  Sydney  and  Emma 
Biddle,  who  are  happy  ourselves,  that  like  everyone  else  to  be 
happy." 

"That  Mrs.  Leon  you  know  in  London,  where  I  dined  with 
you  that  night,  she's  Mrs.  Huxted 's  sister.  Now,  are  she  and 
her  husband  happy  together,  or  is  she  just  a  spiteful  woman, 
too,  like  her  sister  here?  And  truthful — is  she  truthful ?" 

"I  think  she's  all  right,"  Derry,  as  will  have  been  seen,  was 
not  a  good  judge  of  character.  "I  never  heard  her  say  anything 
unkind  about  anybody,  except,  perhaps,  Lady  Carrie.  ..." 
And  then  he  broke  off  abruptly. 

Rosaleen  wanted  him  to  go  on,  but  hardly  knew  how  to  ask 
him. 

"Lady  Carrie  Carthew,  it's  she  that  writes  to  you  by  the 
English  mail,  isn't  it?"  her  breath  fluttered  in  her  throat. 

It  was  Derry  now  who  relapsed  into  silence. 

227 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Those  letters  of  Carrie's,  comparatively  infrequent  as  they 
were,  had  bothered  Derry  a  great  deal.  He  had  done  the  right 
thing  by  her,  and  she  had  been  very  kind  to  him  in  London. 
He  was  still  sorry  for  her,  he  still  wished  he  had  been  able  to 
do  more  for  her.  She  was  a  poor  little  woman  whom  life  had 
treated  hardly.  She  had  managed  to  convey  this  idea  of  herself 
to  him,  and  it  remained  in  his  mind,  but  there  was  an  occasional 
touch  of  sentiment  in  her  letters,  and  it  was  this  that  bothered 
Derry.  Sometimes  her  letters  left  him  with  a  vague  sense  of 
disloyalty  to  Rosaleen.  Sometimes  the  vague  sense  was  of 
disloyalty  to  Carrie.  He  could  tell  Rosaleen  nothing  about 
Carrie's  letters,  and  so  was  silent  now.  For  it  was  Terence's 
secret.  He  could  never  judge  Terence,  nor  criticize  his  con- 
duct, he  had  only  to  protect  his  memory.  What  Terence  had 
done  for  Lady  Carrie,  and  why,  and  what  Derry  was  continuing 
to  do,  must,  at  all  hazards,  be  kept  from  Rosaleen. 

That  was  why  he  broke  off  abruptly  after  he  had  mentioned 
her  name.  It  was  perhaps  but  natural  that  Rosaleen  should 
misconstrue  his  silence. 

"  What  made  you  ask  about  Mrs.  Leon?"  he  asked  presently. 

Rosaleen  had  no  answer  ready. 

There  should  be  no  hiatus  in  the  confidence  between  husband 
and  wife.  Mischief  is  sure  to  breed  in  the  empty  space. 

More  than  once  after  that  evening  in  a  tentative  way,  Rosaleen 
approached  the  subject  of  Derry's  English  correspondent,  but  he 
never  told  her  anything.  In  truth,  as  the  time  wore  on,  Derry 
found  it  no  easier  to  speak  to  Rosaleen  of  Terence.  Jealousy  is 
hardly  the  word,  yet  no  other  describes  it.  Her  thoughts  must 
not  wander  back,  he  wanted  her  to  be  entirely  his  own.  His 
very  delicacy  of  outlook  toward  her  made  it  impossible  to  think 
of  her  as  callous  to  the  dead  man's  memory.  Yet  Derry  could 
not  bear  to  think  that  she  should  remember  Terence.  And  how 
could  he  breathe  word  to  her  that  there  was  another  woman,  too, 
who  had  the  right  to  remember  Terence.  Silence  was  best, 
Derry  thought. 

It  was  a  great  wife  she  made  him,  surely.  No  English  girl  in 
Bangkok  was  as  active  as  she.  He  was  proud  of  her  cooking 

228 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

and  sewing,  of  the  way  she  managed  the  polyglot  servants,  and 
of  all  her  swift  grace  and  charm,  that  were  handmaidens  to  the 
comfort  she  brought  around  him. 

There  is  something  in  common  between  Irish  servants  and 
Siamese,  some  common  quality  of  good-humor  and  incapacity, 
of  loyalty  to  the  household  they  serve,  and  inability  to  serve  it 
straightforwardly.  It  was  on  this  likeness  Rosaleen  built. 
She  knew  when  to  coax  and  when  to  command,  when  to  tolerate, 
and  look  the  other  way  on  misdemeanor,  when  to  rage  out,  or 
pretend  to  rage  out,  and  clear  the  air  with  domestic  storm.  The 
native  servants  simply  worshiped  the  ground  upon  which  she 
trod.  They  came  to  her  for  advice  and  medicine — the  Siamese 
are  great  lovers  of  medicine — they  carried  out  the  majority  of 
her  orders,  they  stole  from  her  as  little  as  they  could  help. 

For  a  time,  life  went  on  in  the  bungalow  much  as  it  had  been 
before  Mrs.  Huxted  had  set  those  mosquitoes  flying.  If  the 
rainbow  had  faded,  if  Rosaleen  was  less  happy,  less  certain, 
Derry  never  knew  it.  He  thought  her  prejudice  against  Mrs. 
Huxted  too  strong,  for  now  Rosaleen  would  go  nowhere  the 
Huxteds  went.  She  could  not  bear  to  be  in  the  same  room  with 
the  woman,  nor  even  on  the  tennis-ground  at  the  same  time. 
She  shrank  back  into  herself  during  these  months.  That  was 
the  way  the  poison  worked  with  her.  She  was  afraid;  afraid 
of  her  happiness,  and  her  worthiness  of  it.  In  the  background 
of  her  life  now,  instead  of  the  rainbow,  there  were  again  clouds — 
there  was  a  doubt.  Already  there  had  come  into  her  mind  the 
question  whether  Derry  had  ever  cared  for  this  woman  with 
whom  he  corresponded.  Was  it  out  of  pity  he  had  married 
herself?  That  was  the  dreadful  question  by  which  she  was 
haunted.  It  was  never  answered;  it  could  never  be  answered, 
because  it  was  never  put.  Only  now  she  watched  for  the  English 
mails,  and  suffered  when  one  of  those  letters  came,  and  Derry 
put  it  in  his  pocket  unopened,  and  told  her  nothing  of  its 
contents. 

He  told  her  all  about  Mossy's  letters,  which  were  full  of  the 
obstructions  Carruthers  was  for  ever  raising  between  Derry  and 
his  rights  in  Ranmore.  Derry  was  never  at  his  best  on  mail- 

229 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

days.  He  was  happy  out  here  with  his  wife  and  his  work,' 
work  that  Sydney  Biddle  said  he  did  better  than  any  other 
European  in  the  whole  department;  but  every  mail-day  brought 
him  an  attack  of  homesickness.  He  would  not  talk  about  it  to 
Rosaleen;  he  would  go  out  and  take  long  walks;  or  go  down  to 
the  racquet  or  tennis  court.  The  more  violent  the  exercise,  the 
more  likely  it  would  be  to  blot  out  from  his  eyes  the  green  glory 
of  pasture  and  wood,  the  sun  and  the  shadow  as  it  played  on  the 
surface  of  the  lake,  the  birds  that  carolled  and  sang,  the  towers 
and  turrets  of  Castle  Ranmore,  the  broken  masonry  with  the 
clinging  ivy.  At  these  times  he  was  desperately  homesick  for 
them  all,  and  for  the  word  of  kindness  that  had  never  come  to 
him,  or  to  his  wife,  from  the  Duchess,  or  the  Dowager.  Home 
was  no  home  if  they  would  not  have  him  there  willingly.  Palm 
and  coconut  must  take  the  place  with  him  of  willow  and  hazel. 
Mail-days  were  black  days  with  them  both;  with  Derry  because 
it  brought  him  that  spasm  and  passion  of  homesickness,  with 
Rosaleen,  because  of  those  scented  letters  that  came,  or  did  not 
come,  and  over  which  there  was  for  ever  silence  between  her  and 
Derry. 

As  time  went  on,  there  was  another  little  hiatus,  or  halt,  in 
their  talk.  There  was  no  homesickness  about  Rosaleen,  it  was 
in  Siam  she  had  found  her  happiness.  And  by  some  instinct 
Derry  grew  to  know  that  she  was  hurt  at  his  longing  for  the  word 
of  kindness  from  his  people,  for  the  blue  mountains,  and  the 
green  woods  of  Ranmore.  She  had  had  so  little  part  in  his  life 
there;  here  she  could  feel  she  was  all  in  all  to  him.  But,  after 
Bianca  Huxted  had  loosed  her  words,  Rosaleen  was  never 
without  a  little  sting  of  shooting  doubt. 

Derry's  contract  with  the  Siamese  Government  had  been 
made  for  two  years.  The  time  was  fast  approaching  when  he 
had  to  consider  whether  it  was  to  be  renewed,  and  all  Rosaleen's 
secret  heart  was  longing  that  the  answer  should  be  in  the  affirm- 
ative. She  had  been  so  happy  here.  Was  happiness  waiting 
for  her  in  the  gray  cold  London?  It  was  the  lady  who  was 
writing  to  him  he'd  be  seeing  there,  no  doubt.  Was  she  any 
fitter  to  meet  Derry's  grand  friends  now  than  she  had  been  when 

230 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

she  came  out  ?  Would  she  be  any  helpmate  for  him  in  the  new 
surroundings  he  would  have?  Here  she  knew  she  had  been  a 
helpmate  to  him.  It  was  that  which  gave  her  any  confidence 
and  courage  she  had;  but  neither  of  them  was  very  firm  once  she 
allowed  herself  to  think  that  there  was  someone  else  for  whom 
Derry  cared. 

It  wasn't  as  if  they  would  be  going  back  to  Ireland,  to  Ranmore. 
Always  it  seemed  there  were  more  difficulties  about  Berry's 
inheritance,  and  more  delay  in  his  prospect  of  being  allowed  to 
take  possession  of  the  home  that  belonged  to  him.  She  could 
not  resent  it,  and  Berry's  resentment,  too,  was  not  personal. 
He  was  sore  and  hurt  at  the  way  he  had  been  treated  without 
ever  quite  understanding  the  genesis  of  it,  but  resentment,  in 
the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word,  was  the  one  feeling  of  which  he 
was  absolutely  incapable  where  his  aunt  or  the  Buchess  were 
concerned. 

As  for  his  aunt,  his  heart  went  out  to  her.  It  was  so  natural 
she  should  resent  his  standing  in  Terence's  shoes;  try  as  he 
might,  Terence's  shoes  would  never  fit  him.  For  ever,  in 
retrospect  he  saw  Terence  through  the  eyes  of  Terence's  mother. 
The  young  sun-god  that  he  was!  She  had  mothered  him,  too, 
in  his  boyhood,  and  all  his  heart  was  soft  when  he  thought  of 
her,  not  hard,  although  she  was  standing  between  him  and 
Ranmore.  It  was  for  her,  as  well  as  for  Ranmore,  that  he  was 
homesick. 

Mossy  had  not  reckoned  on  this  when  he  made  his  plan  of 
campaign,  the  plan  of  campaign  he  had  outlined  to  Ethel,  and 
on  which  he  was  now  prepared  to  act. 

It  was  on  one  of  those  dreaded  days  when  the  English  mail 
was  due  that  Rosaleen,  from  the  veranda,  saw  Berry  come 
tearing  over  the  bridge  with  a  pale  face.  She  knew  the  day  it 
was,  half  the  night  she  had  been  lying  awake,  wondering  if  one 
of  those  letters  would  come.  But  it  was  not  a  letter  from  Carrie 
Carthew  that  Berry  held  in  his  hand.  Her  heart,  which  had 
begun  to  beat  quickly,  quieted  down  when  she  saw  that. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"The  matter!"  he  could  hardly  get  out  what  it  was;  but  he  had 

231 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

come  straight  to  her  for  sympathy.     Straight,  at  least,  after 
having  answered  the  letter  with  a  telegram. 

"The  matter!  We  are  just  going  home,  that's  what  it  is. 
I  can  hardly  wait  to  tell  you.  What  do  you  think  he's  done? 
Him  that  I  thought  was  my  friend." 

"Going  home!  Who  .  .  .  what!  ..."  But  at  least  the 
letter  he  had  in  his  hand  was  not  one  of  those  big  square  envelopes 
with  the  crest. 

"  Why!  Mossy,  Mossy  Leon,  him  that  has  my  affairs  in  hand." 

"And  what  has  he  done?" 

"Read  it,  just  you  read  it!"  He  thrust  the  letter  into  her 
hand,  but  could  scarcely  keep  silent  or  still  while  she  obeyed 
him.  He  strode  about,  and  made  his  indignant  comment,  while 
Rosaleen  read,  only  half  comprehending: 

"I've  come  to  the  end  of  my  patience  with  Carruthers," 
Mossy  wrote.  "And,  as  for  the  Dowager,  I  went  over  to  Dublin 
to  see  her,  and  she  practically  turned  me  out  of  the  house!  So 
I've  no  choice  but  to  put  on  the  screw.  I've  only  waited  all 
this  time  because,  when  I  first  suggested  it,  you  kicked  at  it. 
They  are  making  arrangements  at  Ranmore  for  a  week  of 
mourning;  the  mausoleum  has  been  repaired,  and  there's  a 
temporary  erection  being  run  up  to  the  chapel,  where  I  hear  there 
is  to  be  High  Mass  or  some  of  that  sort  of  thing.  The  Pope,  or 
one  of  the  Cardinals,  or  some  big  pot  in  the  Church,  is  going  to 
conduct  a  sort  of  sing-song."  Mossy's  knowledge  of  Roman 
Catholic  rites  was  on  a  par  with  his  ignorance  of  how  Deny  felt 
about  his  family.  "  The  Dowager  is  going  to  build  an  orphanage 
in  memory  of  her  son,  and  the  ceremonies  at  Ranmore,  I  believe, 
are  a  preliminary  canter.  She  is  using  the  money  for  it  that 
ought  to  be  yours.  Well!  that  just  gives  me  my  chance.  They 
can — at  least,  they  have — stopped  the  rents,  but  there  is  no 
denying  the  Castle  is  yours.  I'm  going  to  wait  until  the  last 
possible  moment,  fool  them  to  the  top  of  their  bent,  and  then 
come  down  with  an  ultimatum.  The  rents  released,  and  a 
settlement  favorable  to  us  of  all  the  questions  in  dispute,  or 
mausoleum  barred,  and  a  posse  of  constables  to  hold  the  Castle 
and  the  chapel  against  all  comers." 

232 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing?  The  scoundrel,  the 
villain!  To  think  I'd  be  a  party  to  it,  barring  her  from  her  own 
house,  saying  the  prayers  for  him  where  he  lies.  An'  it's  her  hus- 
band lies  there,  too."  A  spasm  of  the  throat  seized  him,  and  he 
could  hardly  go  on.  He  forgot  all  about  Rosaleen  for  the  moment, 
although  he  was  talking  to  her.  He  meant  to  protect  her  from 
reminiscences,  but  he  had  forgotten  that.  "I'd  rather  starve 
all  my  life,  I'd  rather  cut  my  right  hand  off,  than  do  such  a 
thing!  It's  they  that  are  the  Ranmores,  her  husband  and  him, 
and  all  the  dead  that  lie  there.  And  me  to  bar  her  out  from 
Ranmore  ..." 

"He  didn't  know  how  you  felt  about  it  all." 

"Then  he  ought  to  have  known.  How  else  should  I  feel? 
To  think  I  should  be  the  one  to  stand  between  her,  and  honoring 
his  memory.  Me!  that  would  spend  my  life,  a  dozen  lives,  if 
I  had  them,  in  keeping  it  green." 

"What  will  you  do?" 

"  I  didn't  wait.  I  cabled  him  not  to  dare  to  interfere.  Sydney 
worded  it  for  me,  I  could  not  collect  myself  to  write;  I'm  going 
home  as  quick  as  I  can  get  there.  There's  no  saying  what  he'll 
be  up  to.  I'm  just  on  fire  to  be  off.  You  don't  mind?" 

"  Of  course,  it's  just  as  you  wish." 

"  Sydney  talked  about  the  cost  of  cables.  I  don't  know  how 
we're  off  for  money,  but  I'd  have  pawned  me  clothes  rather  than 
have  stinted  a  word.  How  dare  he  think  of  such  a  thing!" 

"It  will  reach  him  in  time?" 

"It's  only  October  now." 

Then,  suddenly  he  remembered  he  ought  to  be  saving  her, 
and  he  went  over  and  put  his  arms  about  her. 

"  You  must  forgive  me,  darling.  I  ought  not  to  be  going  on 
like  this.  But  I'm  half  mad  over  it."  She  could  see  that  the 
sob  was  still  in  his  throat.  "Me,  that  loved  him,  to  prevent 
her  saying  her  bit  of  prayer  for  him.  ..." 

His  generous  great  indignation  choked  his  speech.  Rosaleen, 
who  loved  him  so  much  more  than  she  loved  herself,  or  cared 
for  her  memories,  could  do  nothing  but  try  to  help  him.  All 
the  help  he  needed  was  to  get  home  quickly.  He  did  not  know 

233 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

what  he  would  do  when  he  got  there,  nor  did  he  pause  to  con- 
sider. The  passion  of  homesickness  had  risen  to  its  height,  and 
overflowed  in  unnecessary  haste.  To  be  moving,  to  be  traveling 
homeward,  was  the  idea  that  possessed  him  entirely,  he  was  on 
fire  with  it. 

Rosaleen  could  do  only  her  small  part,  in  packing,  and 
facilitating  their  departure.  If  her  heart  ached  at  giving  up 
her  home,  it  ached  dumbly.  For  the  moment,  Deny  was  giving 
her  no  thought.  All  his  thought  was  at  Ranmore,  in  the 
mausoleum,  in  the  chapel.  It  was  a  month  before  the  anniver- 
sary of  Terence's  death  would  come  round.  Would  his  cable 
be  in  time  to  stop  Mossy 's  proceedings  ?  That  was  all  he  could 
think,  or  talk  about.  A  cruel,  damnable,  dastardly  thing  it  was 
to  do.  And  to  think  it  was  being  done  in  his  name!  To  bar 
the  mother  from  praying  by  the  tomb  of  her  son,  to  keep  Ran- 
more from  the  Ranmores,  to  add  anything  to  the  sorrow  that 
had  fallen  upon  her!  He  really  lost  both  his  sleep  and  his 
appetite.  Him  to  do  it!  him  who  loved  her  almost  like  a  mother; 
though  it  was  a  stepmother  she  had  been  to  him  since  Terence's 
death.  But  small  blame  to  her  for  it,  poor  thing!  And  now, 
if  Mossy  carried  out  his  plan,  and  if  she  thought  he  had  a  hand 
in  it  .  .  .It  was  unbearable,  unthinkable.  He  raged  over  it. 
Even  Rosaleen  had  none  of  his  thoughts  during  the  week  that 
followed  the  sending  of  the  cable.  After  the  first  two  days  he 
simply  haunted  the  telegraph  office.  He  made  poor  Sydney 
Biddle's  life  a  burden  to  him  by  cross-examining  him  as  to  how 
long  a  telegram  generally  took  to  get  from  Bangkok  to  London 
and  back  again,  what  was  the  shortest  time  on  record,  what 
were  the  circumstances  that  expedited  it,  and  whether  they 
could  not  be  repeated? 

The  telegram  came  at  last,  and  proved  satisfactory.  It  was 
in  cipher.  Sydney  read  it  out  to  him.  Deny  had  cabled: 

"Absolutely  forbid  interference  with  memorial  service. 
Castle  and  contents  to  be  left  at  Lady  Ranmore's  disposal 
without  restriction  or  proviso.  Reply  confirming.  On  my  way 
home." 

Mossy  answered: 

234 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Glad  to  hear  of  your  return.  Impossible  raise  money  or 
avoid  proceedings  if  you  persist  in  your  instructions." 

"Damn  the  fellow!"  Deny  was  not  given  to  swearing,  but 
Sydney  was  his  only  audience,  and  Sydney  would  not  score  it 
against  him.  "Be  damned  to  him!  Does  he  think  he  is  going 
to  threaten  me?  As  if  I  cared  for  his  dirty  money!  Here,  I'm 
going  to  cable  him  again,  plain  English  for  me." 

He  wrote  out  a  flaming  tirade,  but  Sydney  ultimately  reduced 
it  to  something  like  reasonable  dimensions.  Deny  would  have 
expended  forty  pounds'  worth  of  indignation,  but  Sydney 
reduced  it  to  under  five.  It  was  not  the  moment  to  tell  him  so, 
but  Sydney  thought,  from  what  had  been  told  him  of  the  Ran- 
more  finances,  that  Deny  would  want  all  the  forty  pounds  he 
could  save.  And,  after  all,  the  object  in  view  could  be  achieved 
without  desperate  extravagance. 

"Do  nothing  until  I  arrive.  Instructions  must  be  strictly 
observed.  No  interference  with  Ranmore  ceremonies  under 
any  circumstances." 

Nothing  remained  to  be  done,  but  to  help  them  to  get  away. 
It  was  not  without  a  pang  that  Emma  did  her  loyal  part.  She 
had  grown  attached  to  Rosaleen,  and  Sonny  might  have  been 
her  own  for  the  love  she  lavished  on  him.  She  had  grown,  too, 
to  some  understanding  of  Rosaleen,  and  she  knew  there  was  no 
joy  in  her  outlook  toward  that  home-going.  But  Deny's 
impatience  to  be  off  never  abated,  and  both  of  them  were  loyal 
to  him,  and  did  their  best. 

The  day  of  their  departure  seemed  to  be  upon  them  before 
Rosaleen  had  fully  realized  that  she  must  uproot  herself.  It 
seemed  years  since  the  day  they  had  first  crossed  the  mud-bar, 
with  the  dim  lighthouse  on  Kaw  Chuen  facing  them  beyond 
the  brown  and  ugly  waters.  Now  she  could  hardly  bear  to  look 
at  the  mangroves,  and  the  white  buildings  with  their  flat  roofs, 
the  pagoda  in  the  river,  and  the  betel  and  cocoanut  palms,  the 
riverside  cottages,  the  yellowing  padi,  the  floating  houses  on  the 
rafts,  the  mud-banks,  and  rice-mills,  the  lorchas,  the  steam- 
launches,  the  crowded  rows  of  native  rice-boats,  empty  now, 
and  the  tall-masted  junk-rigged  lighters.  She  saw  them  all 

235 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

through  a  mist  of  tears.  What  had  she  not  found  here  ?  Peace 
and  home  at  first,  love  and  happiness  afterward.  What  was 
she  going  back  to,  save  unrest  and  doubt?  But  she  did  not 
want  him  to  see  her  depression;  his  whole  mood  was  so  different. 

They  had  passed  the  mud-bar  and  the  river,  they  were  in  the 
Gulf,  and  clear  of  shipping,  before  he  could  begin  to  rest. 

"I  thought  we  should  never  get  off.  Up  to  the  last  moment 
I  was  afraid  something  would  occur  to  prevent  us  starting.  It 
seems  too  good  to  be  true,"  he  said  to  her. 

Was  it  possible  for  her  to  say  she  wished  they  had  never  started 
at  all,  she,  who  wanted  his  happiness  so  much  more  than  her 
own!  Later  on,  it  was  the  day  they  were  approaching  Colombo, 
when  the  evening  gathered  in  the  wind-swept  sky,  he  seemed  to 
wake  up  to  the  difference  in  her  moods. 

"You're  not  sorry  to  be  going  back?"  he  asked.  She  was 
standing  on  the  deck,  when  he  joined  her,  watching  the  waves 
as  they  scudded  under  the  keel,  and  at  first  it  was  difficult  to 
answer  him.  She  had  been  thinking  of  her  happiness  at  Petcha- 
buri,  and  in  the  bungalow,  of  services  she  had  been  able  to 
render  him  at  Wat  Poh  Pra.  What  use  would  she  be  to  him 
when  they  got  home  ?  And  what  of  the  lady  that  wrote  to  him  ? 
Her  heart  was  very  heavy  and  sad  as  she  watched  the  scudding 
waters. 

"I'm  wondering  what  we  will  do  at  first,"  was  what  she 
answered  when  she  could  bring  her  thoughts  to  answer  at  all. 

"Oh!  we'll  have  great  doings,"  he  answered  vaguely,  but 
happily.  "And  isn't  it  together  we  will  be  anyhow?" 

"But  it's  not  me  you'll  be  wanting  when  your  grand  friends 
get  around  you." 

"It's  no  grand  friends  I've  got  at  all.  And  there'll  never  be 
a  moment  I'm  not  wanting  you." 

She  had  Lady  Carrie  Carthew's  name  on  her  tongue,  but 
could  not  utter  it. 

"I'm  thinking  it's  a  great  deal  I  found  in  Siam,"  she  said  in 
a  voice  so  low  that  it  might  have  been  part  of  the  sough  of  the 
sea,  lost  in  the  wind  and  the  wave.  How  the  waters  were  scud- 
ding, how  fast  they  were  steaming! 

236 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"And  isn't  it  home  we're  taking  with  us,"  he  answered  gaily, 
with  an  arm  flung  over  her  shoulder.  "It's  you  that  will  make 
home  for  me,  Rosaleen,  wherever  I  go."  The  deep  breath  was 
as  a  sigh  of  relief.  "Oh!  but  I'm  tired  of  the  palaces,  and  the 
pagodas,  and  all  the  brown  faces.  You  felt  it  up  in  Wat  Poh 
Pra  when  I  hadn't  a  trace  of  it,  nor  a  thought  for  anything  but 
you.  But  it's  meself  that's  been  feeling  it  all  these  months  in 
Bangkok;  at  times  it's  been  little  but  a  prison  to  me." 


16 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IT  was  February  when  they  reached  London;  a  treacherous 
month,  when  the  wind  was  high,  with  cold  showers  abun- 
dant, the  sun  fitful  and  rare,  and  the  change  from  the  East 
trying  to  the  travelers. 

It  seemed  to  Rosaleen  that,  from  the  moment  they  sighted 
land,  she  no  longer  held  the  first  place  in  Berry's  heart,  if  indeed 
she  had  ever  held  it!  She  could  torture  herself  that  way,  too. 
Now  he  was  thinking  and  talking  of  nothing  but  Ranmore, 
wondering  what  had  been  done,  or  left  undone.  He  was  in  the 
woods,  or  on  the  lake;  memories  crowded  upon  him,  and  set 
rare  melancholy  in  his  dark  eyes.  But  it  was  only  of  Ranmore 
she  was  jealous  during  these  last  few  days  of  the  journey.  Even 
then,  she  found  all  her  courage  was  needed  to  face  the  uncertain 
future. 

It  had  been  easier  to  make  a  home  in  the  Bangkok  bungalow, 
a  sola  at  Petchaburi,  or  on  the  environments  of  a  rice-field  in 
Wat  Poh  Pra,  than  it  was  in  the  dismal  Strand  Hotel,  to  which 
Deny  brought  his  family.  A  man  they  had  met  on  the  steamer 
had  recommended  this  hotel  to  them,  and  they  went  there  direct. 
The  recommendation  must  have  been  for  economy;  other 
advantages  were  all  to  seek.  Their  bedroom  was  noisy,  with 
ill-fitting  windows.  The  first  night,  the  roar  of  the  Strand 
seemed  to  interrupt  any  attempt  to  talk,  filling  their  life  with 
discord;  at  least,  that  is  how  it  appeared  to  Rosaleen.  Derry 
wanted  to  see  Mossy  Leon  immediately.  He  was  aching  for 
news.  He  said  so  that  night,  and  he  said  little  else,  he  was  so 
conscious  of  the  aching. 

But  the  interview  had  perforce  to  wait.  Derry,  fine  strong 
fellow  though  he  was,  had  contrived  to  catch  cold.  He  meant 
to  have  seen  Mossy  the  next  day,  but  his  night  was  feverish 

238 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

and  restless,  and  when  he  tried  to  get  up,  to  throw  off  the  feeling 
of  illness,  to  assure  himself  that  there  was  nothing  at  all  the 
matter,  influenza  urged  its  unanswerable  argument,  and  drove 
him  back  to  bed.  A  doctor,  recommended  by  the  hotel  pro- 
prietor, and  acting  solely  in  his  interest,  found  that  Lord  Ran- 
more  was  suffering  from  "malaria"  and  would  be  well  in  a  few 
hours.  He  assured  Lady  Ranmore  that  there  was  nothing 
infectious  in  the  illness,  and  he  prescribed  drugs  to  reduce  the 
fever.  He  reduced  the  patient's  strength  at  the  same  time, 
but  this  was  a  detail.  In  twenty-four  hours  he  was  able  to 
verify  his  prophecy  that  the  temperature  would  be  normal. 
Rosaleen  ought  to  have  taken  another  room  for  herself  and 
little  Terence,  but  it  never  struck  her  to  do  this,  and  the  doctor 
never  suggested  it. 

They  had  brought  no  nurse  with  them  from  Bangkok,  a 
Siamese  woman  would  have  been  only  an  obstruction,  and 
there  was  no  European  to  be  had.  Little  Terence  had  been  no 
trouble  at  all  on  the  journey,  he  had  been  on  deck  all  the  time, 
everybody's  playmate,  and  playmate,  too,  of  the  sun  and  the 
air.  He  missed  his  companions  here  in  this  close  room.  During 
the  first  day  or  two  of  Derry  's  illness  he  was  as  good  as  gold,  and 
played  quietly  with  his  toys  in  a  corner  of  the  room.  It  seemed 
possible  to  make  him  understand  that  "poor  daddy  had  a  toos- 
ache."  The  struggle  through  of  those  dilatory  teeth  had  been 
the  only  discomfort  he  knew.  He  wanted  to  "tomfort"  Daddy, 
to  pat  his  mouth.  Rosaleen  had  her  work  cut  out  with  both 
of  them.  The  first  day  Derry  was  restless,  thirsty  and  in  high 
fever,  the  second  day  he  was  only  drowsy,  and  she  was  able  to 
take  the  baby  out  for  an  hour  or  two.  He  was  used  to  air,  and 
quickly  languished  without  it,  but  the  compressed  air  of  the 
Strand  is  unnutritious.  Therefore,  long  before  Derry  had 
thrown  off  his  illness,  little  sonny  had  sickened  of  it.  Night 
and  day  Rosaleen  nursed  them  both.  The  baby  had  the  com- 
plaint mildly,  but  it  left  him  fretful  and  difficult. 

As  for  Derry,  to  the  one  day  of  high  fever  succeeded  nearly 
a  fortnight  of  headache  and  lassitude,  with  pains  in  his  head 
and  a  great  unwillingness  of  movement. 

239 


.LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Rosaleen  walked  the  room  hour  after  hour  with  the  boy, 
singing  low  to  him  to  keep  him  quiet,  for  Deny  needed  sleep. 
It  was  little  sleep  she  got  herself  that  first  week  of  her  home- 
coming. She  did  not  know  what  Berry's  plans  were.  She 
could  not  look  forward,  and  the  four  walls  of  that  bedroom 
seemed  as  the  estoppel  of  her  vision.  But  those  four  walls  held 
her  dear  ones,  and  night  and  day  she  nursed  and  tended  them, 
happier  in  her  mind  than  she  had  been  since  the  intrusion  into 
it  of  Lady  Carrie. 

When  Derry  awoke  to  what  was  going  on,  he  missed  the 
geranium  from  her  cheeks,  and  some  of  the  light  from  her 
eyes. 

"You're  pale,"  he  said,  looking  up  at  her  from  his  pillow. 
His  headache  had  gone,  and  the  power  of  thinking  had  evidently 
returned  to  him.  "What's  come  to  you?" 

"It's  not  my  looks  you  have  got  to  be  thinking  of,  but  your 
own,"  she  answered,  smiling  on  him.  "You  are  better  this 
morning?" 

She  had  been  up  a  long  time,  had  washed  and  dressed  the 
boy,  and  given  him  his  breakfast.  Now  he  was  drowsing  off 
to  sleep  again  in  her  arms. 

"I'm  well.  What  has  been  the  matter  with  me?  Why  is 
it  so  dark?" 

"It's  a  foggy  morning.  You  have  had  high  fever  and  head- 
ache; malaria,  the  doctor  calls  it." 

"Have  I  seen  Mossy  Leon?  How  long  have  I  been  here? 
I  don't  seem  to  remember  anything." 

"You  have  not  seen  anyone  but  me.  You  were  taken  ill  the 
night  you  came." 

"And  how  long  ago  was  that?" 

"More  than  a  week." 

"You've  been  nursing  me  again?" 

"It  wasn't  much  nursing  you  needed.  Just  a  drink  of  milk 
and  soda,  and  the  medicine." 

He  was  eyeing  her  solicitously: 

"  You  have  been  losing  your  looks.  I  am  ashamed  of  myself 
to  have  been  lying  here  like  this.  But  I'm  all  right  this  morn- 

240 


ing,  I'll  just  have  a  bath  and  a  shave,  and  I'll  be  as  right  as  rain. 
We  must  be  getting  those  roses  back  for  you.  ..." 

But,  when  he  tried  to  get  out  of  bed,  he  found  the  doctor  and 
his  drugs  had  been  too  much  for  him.  His  legs  refused  their 
office,  and  were  like  drunken  servants  who  could  not  do  their 
duty.  He  collapsed  on  the  floor,  and  lay  there  a  moment, 
feeling  very  shaky  and  dazed. 

"That's  a  nice  thing  to  have  happened,"  he  said.  She  put 
the  boy  into  his  cot,  he  was  fortunately  asleep.  Then  she  tried 
to  help  Derry,  but  getting  him  back  on  to  the  bed  again  was  by 
no  means  easy. 

"I've  done  a  nice  thing  for  you,  bringing  you  here,  and  me 
like  this,"  Derry  said  breathlessly,  when  he  was  back  in  bed. 
"What's  to  be  done  now?"  He  felt  utterly  helpless  and  depend- 
ent on  her.  "I  am  only  a  log;  and  no  use  to  you  at  all." 

She  tried  to  comfort  him. 

"You  will  be  well  in  no  time  at  all.  It's  only  your  breakfast 
you  are  wanting  now.  Wait  till  I  ring  and  get  it  for  you.  You  '11 
feel  stronger  after  that.  ..." 

But  Derry 's  spirits  had  collapsed  with  his  legs. 

"I  believe  I'll  never  be  any  better.  I  don't  know  what's 
going  to  become  of  you  in  this  great  wilderness  of  a 
town  .  .  .  ? 

She  had  to  laugh  at  him,  as  she  coaxed  him  to  a  cup  of  coffee 
and  a  little  toast.  He  did  not  want  to  eat  or  drink,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  was  very  ill,  and  would  never  be  better,  a  black 
wave  of  depression  struck  him,  as  it  were,  full  between  the  eyes. 
It  was  Rosaleen  who  would  not  let  him  shut  his  eyes,  and  be 
submerged.  He  muttered  that  he  had  brought  her  away  from 
her  friends,  that  they  were  all  alone  in  this  great  city. 

"It's  not  alone  at  all  I  am,  with  you  and  the  boy,"  she  said 
gently.  She  had  a  great  deal  to  do  for  both  of  them,  and  no 
work  was  too  much  for  her.  Only  Derry 's  depression  worried 
her.  She  could  not  satisfy  herself  that  its  source  was  illness 
only.  She  was  so  little  used  to  him,  and  the  mosquito  stings 
revived.  Was  it  something  or  somebody  he  was  missing,  and 
if  so  .  .  .  who?  Of  course  the  depression  was  due  to  the 

241 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

influenza  and  the  drugs,  and,  although  some  instinct  told  her 
this,  and  that  feeding  up  was  the  panacea,  she  tried  to  find  other 
causes.  She  thought  perhaps  he  was  fretting  over  what  might 
be  going  on  at  Ranmore.  It  was  her  sudden  idea  that  instead 
of  waiting  until  he  was  able  to  call  on  Mossy,  he  should  send  to 
him. 

"It's  him  that  you're  looking  to  for  news.  He  won't  have 
done  what  you  told  him  not.  Let  me  write  to  him,  and  tell  him 
you  are  in  London.  Then  you  will  hear  what  is  going  on," 
she  urged. 

"How  can  I  sit  up  and  write?" 

"And  why  should  you  sit  up  and  write?  It's  meself  that  will 
write." 

"What  can  you  say?  You  can't  tell  him  he  is  a  murder- 
ing villain  to  think  of  disturbing  them." 

"I  can  tell  him  you're  wantin'  to  know  what's  been  done." 

"Oh!  Do  what  you  like."  Berry's  face  was  turned  to 
the  wall.  Hadn't  he  tried  to  get  up,  and  hadn't  his  legs  failed 
him?  And  wasn't  he  no  use  at  all?  Now  he  only  wanted  to 
be  left  alone  and  sleep.  The  noise  of  the  hotel,  and  the  roar 
from  the  Strand,  were  both  at  the  worst  this  morning.  The 
state  of  their  finances  made  it  difficult  for  her  to  decide  a  move 
on  her  own  responsibility.  Her  recollection  of  Mossy  was  that 
he  had  tried  to  be  kind  to  her.  Derry  had  always  liked  him 
until  that  unfortunate  suggestion.  And  there  was  no  one  else. 
.  .  .  She  had  another  name  in  the  background  of  her  mind. 
Derry  was  not  friendless,  he  had  a  friend  in  London;  but  it  was 
not  to  Lady  Carrie  Carthew  she  would  be  writing.  She  made 
up  her  mind  quickly  while  Derry  slept: 

"DEAR  MR.  LEON, — Derry  took  a  chill  the  very  first  day 
he  got  to  England,  and  has  had  to  stay  in  bed.  He  is  uneasy 
in  his  mind,  and  is  wanting  to  hear  all  about  Ranmore.  It 
would  be  kind  if  you  would  send  me  a  letter  that  will  ease  him 
when  he  wakes  up." 

She  went  softly  out  of  the  room,  so  softly  that  she  woke 
neither  of  them,  and  gave  the  letter  to  a  boy.  She  knew  the 
address  of  Mossy 's  office,  and  said  it  was  to  be  taken  over  at 

242 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

once,  it  was  but  a  step.  Then  she  went  back  into  the  darkened 
room  as  softly  as  she  had  left  it;  she  was  a  born  nurse. 

Mossy  had  been  expecting  to  hear  from  Lord  Ranmore  for 
some  days  now.  He  knew  he  was  due  in  England,  and  there 
were  bills  to  be  renewed,  and  sundry  matters  to  be  gone  into. 
Rosaleen  's  letter  was  brought  to  him  when  he  was  in  the  middle 
of  his  post.  Mossy  Leon's  habits  were  luxurious,  and  he  did 
not  arrive  at  his  office  until  eleven.  When  he  had  read  the  note 
he  was  in  two  minds  about  bundling  all  his  other  correspondence 
back  into  the  basket,  and  dashing  round  at  once  to  the  hotel. 
He  could  not  understand  why  Lord  Ranmore  had  chosen  such 
a  domicile.  But  he  remembered  Albany  Street! 

"He  was  always  a  queer  fellow  about  diggings,"  Mossy 
thought.  He  did  not  understand  Berry's  desire  to  be  econom- 
ical. Deny  had  come  nowhere  near  the  end  of  his  borrowing 
powers,  and  Mossy  only  understood  economy  when  it  was 
obligatory.  He  had  no  horror  of  debt.  Quite  the  contrary. 
It  was  one  of  his  aphorisms  that  creditors  were  tradesmen,  to 
whom  bad  debts  were  a  necessity,  in  fact  an  integral  part  of 
their  balance-sheets.  When  his  own  tradesmen  became  im- 
portunate, which  his  improvident  habits  brought  about  frequently, 
and  threatened  him  with  a  writ,  or  other  proceedings,  he  would 
pay  under  protest,  and  say  they  were  blackmailers.  Another 
of  his  aphorisms  was  that  a  man  who,  having  ready  money, 
parted  with  it,  did  not  deserve  to  be  trusted  with  it  at  all. 

He  did  not  know  of  any  reason  why  Rord  Ranmore  should 
be  economizing,  for  he  had  hardly  touched  the  edge  of  his  credit. 
The  hotel  was  so  near  that  he  could  put  off  going  there  until 
after  lunch,  which  he  could  enjoy  at  Romano's,  in  the  cheery 
company  of  chorus-girls,  and  their  admirers;  the  semi-theatrical, 
semi-Bohemian  atmosphere  suited  him.  He  knew  most  of  the 
habitue's,  and  it  was  usually  the  pleasantest  hour  of  the  day 
for  him. 

Everybody  in  the  theatrical  world  knew  Mossy  Leon,  not  only 
because  he  was  part  author  of  the  libretti  of  many  musical 
comedies,  but  because  he  was  also  legal  adviser  to  the  most 
famous  entrepreneur  of  them  all.  He  enjoyed  his  unique  position, 

243 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

and  no  one  was  better  up  in  the  gossip  of  the  coulisses.  He 
had  helped  a  good  many  famous,  or  infamous,  artistes  into  con- 
tracts, or  out  of  them.  Here  at  Romano's  he  was  in  the  thick 
of  his  clients.  He  forgot  Deny  while  he  was  going  from  table 
to  table,  to  this  group  and  the  other.  He  settled  down  finally 
with  three  young  ladies  who  had  been  rehearsing,  and  in  their 
giggling  society  he  discussed  his  excellent  luncheon  over  a  bottle 
of  champagne. 

It  was  half-past  three  before  he  remembered  he  was  on  his 
way  to  see  Derry  Ranmore,  and  he  was  feeling  mellow  and  well 
content.  He  walked  from  Romano's  to  the  hotel;  the  very 
entrance  offended  his  senses. 

"  Good  God!  what  a  hole  for  a  man  to  stay  in!"  he  exclaimed, 
oblivious  of  the  feelings  of  a  German  waiter  who  was  sauntering 
from  the  table  d'hote  room  to  the  hall,  carrying  a  table-napkin 
as  soiled  as  himself. 

"Here,  you!  find  me  someone  to  take  my  card  to  a  gentleman. 
Isn't  there  a  hall  porter  or  something?  Where  the  dickens  can 
I  find  someone  to  take  a  message?"  There  really  was  no  one 
about  but  the  German  waiter.  "Lord  Ranmore  is  staying 
here,  isn't  he?  Can  I  see  him?" 

The  waiter  saw  no  reason  why  not.  Meinherr  Ranmore 
was  on  the  second  floor — Number  Eighty-four.  No,  there 
was  no  lift,  aufzug,  the  stairs  were  not  steep. 

Mossy  went  up.  The  shabby  stair-carpets,  and  the  smell 
of  food  positively  distressed  him.  One  has  to  recollect  he  liked 
Derry,  and  was  never  more  than  half  a  business  man.  The 
rest  of  him  was  made  up  of  inconsistencies,  the  chief  of  which 
was  a  desire  for  everybody's  well-being.  "What  the  devil 
made  him  come  to  a  hole  like  this?"  was  all  he  was  thinking. 
His  conscience  did  not  distress  him  at  all  in  having  essayed  to 
prevent  the  Dowager  Lady  Ranmore  from  occupying  the  Castle 
without  giving  any  equivalent  to  Derry.  Mossy 's  conscience 
was  a  very  easy  and  adaptable  friend  to  him.  A  keen  sense 
of  humor  helped,  too,  to  keep  it  always  in  good  subordinate 
mood.  He  knew  it  had  been  a  very  clever  idea  to  close  the 
mausoleum  against  the  Dowager,  and  he  thought,  at  the  time, 

244 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

that  Ranmore  had  been  a  fool  to  stop  him,  but  so  many  things 
had  intervened  that  he  had  forgotten  this  one.  The  things 
that  had  intervened  were  chiefly  chorus-girls.  All  he  remem- 
bered very  distinctly  just  now  was  that  Deny  Ranmore  was 
a  nice  genial  fellow,  and  Flossie  Delaporte  would  like  him. 

He  knocked  at  the  door  of  Room  84,  and  being  bidden  in 
Rosaleen's  clear  accents  to  enter,  he  found  himself  in  a  close 
atmosphere.  Derry  had  once  more  essayed  to  rise,  but  had  only 
got  to  the  easy-chair,  and  into  a  dressing-gown.  Rosaleen,  of 
whom  Mossy 's  only  remembrance  was  her  incongruous  appear- 
ance at  his  dinner-party,  and  her  abrupt  and  inexplicable  flight 
from  it,  had  a  baby  in  her  arms. 

The  walls  of  the  room  were  papered  with  horrible  yellow 
chrysanthemums,  and  there  were  no  pictures  or  prints  to  relieve 
this;  but  there  was  a  square  of  green  carpet,  with  a  maple- wood 
chest  of  drawers,  washing  and  dressing-table,  and  Terence's 
cot.  Berry's  easy-chair  was  of  basket-work.  Mossy  had  an 
immediate  sensation  of  acute  discomfort. 

"My  dear  fellow!  Why  didn't  you  send  for  me  before? 
I've  been  wondering  what  the  deuce  had  become  of  you.  But 
what  a  ghastly  hole  to  be  in!" 

He  gave  Derry  no  time  to  remember  that  he  was  a  villain. 
With  an  eye  on  Rosaleen,  rather  a  bold  eye,  by  the  way,  he  took 
a  seat  by  Derry,  and  plunged  at  once  into  talk. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry  to  see  you  like  this.  What  doctor  have 
you  had  ?  Some  damn  fool  of  a  general  practitioner,  I  suppose. 
You  ought  to  have  the  best  man  in  London.  There's  Tanner 
now,  he's  a  very  clever  fellow.  ..." 

"I'm  not  requiring  a  doctor.  That  was  a  nice  thing  you 
wanted  to  be  doing  at  Ranmore,"  Derry  began.  But  he  was 
glad  to  see  Mossy,  he  knew  it,  even  while  he  started  to  abuse 
him.  Mossy  Leon  took  the  bull  by  the  horns. 

"My  dear  fellow,  you  don't  mind  my  saying  you  made  a 
damn  fool  of  yourself  with  that  cable?  By  now  everything 
"would  have  been  straightened  out,  and  you'd  have  been  at  the 
Ritz,  with  money  to  burn,  instead  of  in  this  dog-kennel.  But 
we  won't  discuss  that  now.  You  are  not  fit  for  it.  I  don't 

245 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

believe  you  ought  to  be  out  of  bed."     He  turned  again  to 
Rosaleen. 

"Who  has  been  attending  him?" 

He  looked  at  her,  and  now  he  really  did  not  want  to  look 
away  again. 

"It's  the  malaria  he  has  had;  and  the  sunstroke  he  took  out 
at  Petchaburi  has  left  him  subject  to  headaches.  But  he's 
better  to-day.  You  are  better  to-day,  aren't  you,  Deny? 
And  talking  to  Mr.  Leon  will  do  you  good." 

"I  should  think  if  you  have  not  done  him  good,  no  one 
could,"  Mossy  said  this  with  his  wandering  eyes  still  following 
Rosaleen  as  she  moved  about  the  room. 

Mossy  was  straight  from  Romano's,  where  all  the  girls, 
with  peroxide  heads  and  advertised  smiles,  who  danced  and 
sang  in  musical  comedy,  and  drew  London  by  their  beauty  or 
agility,  had  been  lunching  and  talking.  To  look  from  the 
garish,  gilded  beauties  he  had  left,  into  Rosaleen 's  pale  face, 
gray  eyes  and  wealth  of  black  hair,  was  like  coming  from  the 
decorative  atrocities  of  a  modern  Alhambra  into  the  broad 
calm  of  a  Venetian  lagoon.  He  would  not  have  been  Mossy 
Leon  if  he  had  not  felt  immediately  that  she  was  a  factor  in 
the  situation.  She  was  beautiful,  this  wife  of  Derry's,  unques- 
tionably beautiful.  There  were  a  dozen  things  to  talk  to  Derry 
about,  the  bills  that  must  be  renewed,  the  action  that  ought  to 
be  taken  with  regard  to  the  rents  and  leases;  but  Mossy  did  not 
want  to  talk  of  any  of  them,  he  wanted  to  look  at  Rosaleen, 
and  indulge  himself  with  that  little  thrill  of  appreciation. 

Rosaleen,  however,  thought  the  men  would  want  to  be  left 
alone. 

"  I  'm  going  to  wrap  the  boy  up,  and  take  him  out  for  a  while," 
she  told  Derry.  "Mr.  Leon  will  be  company  for  you  while  I'm 
gone.  He'll  tell  you  all  you  want  to  know." 

"Don't  leave  us,  Lady  Ranmore,"  Mossy  said. 

She  smiled  at  Mossy  because  already  she  saw  that  he  was 
going  to  do  Derry  good,  and  the  smile  completed  her  conquest. 

"Can't  talk  about  Flossie  in  the  same  breath,"  was  Mossy 's 
inward  comment  when  he  opened  the  door  for  her. 

246 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"What  a  beautiful  boy!"  Mossy  was  fond  of  children,  and 
knew  by  instinct  what  to  say  to  them. 

"He  has  not  been  well  these  last  few  days." 

"You  all  want  looking  after,  that's  what  it  is."  Mossy 
liked  the  idea  of  playing  providence  to  Rosaleen  and  her  belong- 
ings. He  went  back  to  Deny  after  she  had  gone  out. 

"Tell  me  about  everything,"  Derry  said,  rather  feebly. 

"You  know  Flossie  Delaporte  is  to  play  'lead'  in  the  new 
piece  at  the  Pantheon?  I  suppose  I  mustn't  smoke  here? 
Your  wife's  a  beauty,  and  no  mistake.  I'd  like  Nat  Simons 
to  see  her.  What  a  place  to  have  brought  her!"  Mossy  was 
quite  restless  for  a  few  moments  after  Rosaleen  had  left  them, 
and  walked  about  the  room,  talking  spasmodically.  Then,  all 
at  once,  he  recollected  Berry's  needs. 

"Have  you  seen  any  of  them,  there  at  Ranmore?"  Derry 
asked  him.  Again  and  again  during  his  illness  the  passion  of 
desire  for  Ranmore,  and  for  his  people  there,  had  surged  hope- 
lessly over  him. 

"I  went  over.  What  a  cursed  crossing  it  is!  ...  I  saw 
the  old  lady  in  Dublin." 

"She  is  not  old  at  all,"  Derry  interposed.     "Go  on." 

"And  I  told  her  what  I  thought  of  her,  but  she  began  by 
abusing  me.  She  said  you  had  put  yourself  in  the  hands  of  a 
low  attorney,  and  you  had  forgotten  what  she  and  Terence  were 
to  you — and  a  lot  more." 

"You  didn't  let  her  think  you  came  from  me?" 

"What  the  deuce  did  it  matter  what  she  thought?  The 
woman's  a  perfect  vixen." 

"She  used  to  be  so  good  to  me." 

"Well!  She  doesn't  seem  to  feel  that  way  now.  She  called 
you  all  the  names  she  could  lay  her  tongue  to,  from  interloper 
to  abductor.  I  suppose  it  was  a  bit  hot,  you  bolting  with  the 
girl  that  was  engaged  to  your  cousin,  before  he  had  been  buried 
eight-and-forty  hours!  I  say  ...  do  you  really  think  a 
cigarrette  would  matter?  I  believe  it  would  be  better  for  you 
than  the  atmosphere  of  this  room." 

"Oh!  smoke  if  you  like,"  Derry  said  impatiently,  "but  go 

247 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

on  with  your  talking.  What  else  did  she  say?  And  did  you 
see  the  Duchess,  or  hear  of  her?  What  has  become  of  her? 
Are  they  both  deserting  me  entirely?" 

With  a  cigarette  hanging  on  to  his  lower  lip,  Mossy  grew 
more  definite.  Derry  heard  about  the  interview  in  Dublin. 
It  was  obvious  that  Mossy  had  widened,  not  lessened  the 
breach. 

He  had  seen  the  Dowager  Lady  Ranmore  in  her  own  house, 
in  Merrion  Square.  He  had  not  waited  to  be  announced, 
but  had  followed  his  card  into  the  drawing-room,  and  com- 
menced at  once  by  saying  he  represented  Lord  Ranmore. 

The  Dowager,  who  was  sitting  gazing  into  the  fire,  seeing 
nothing  but  a  lonely  old  age  reflected  there,  seemed  at  first 
too  dazed  to  realize  who  he  was,  or  what  he  wanted.  Then, 
when  she  began  to  understand,  her  desolation  broke  over  her 
like  a  cold  and  devastating  wave,  and  she  could  only  breath- 
lessly splutter  out  the  anger  that  was  another  name  for  shock. 
Was  this  Derry 's  emissary — Derry,  who  hadn't  so  much  as 
asked  if  she  was  dead  or  alive, — but  only  that  she  should  give 
up  Ranmore  to  him,  with  all  she  had  done  there  "for  her  lost 
darling."  Dry  sobs  had  contended  with  incoherent  grief  as  she 
talked.  Wasn't  it  her  husband's  cousin's  son,  and  had  not  she 
been  a  mother  to  him  all  the  days  he  was  an  orphan?  And 
hadn't  he  left  them  alone  in  the  house  directly  trouble  had 
come  to  it,  clearing  out  when  the  black  sorrow  came?  And 
now  it  was  money  he  wanted,  and  only  money.  Ranmore  was 
not  for  such  as  he.  And  the  girl,  who  had  professed  to  care 
for  Terence,  her  angel  son,  had  gone  with  him!  It  was  the  heir 
she  had  wanted,  and  never  cared  which  of  them  it  was;  but  it 
was  heir  to  nothing  Derry  would  be,  and  heir  to  nothing  she 
had  married.  She  would  pull  Ranmore  down  on  both  their 
heads  if  she  could,  and  it  was  little  short  of  it  that  she  was  able 
to  do,  Mr.  Carruthers  told  her,  if  she  exercised  her  rights,  and 
she  had  instructed  him  to  waive  none  of  them.  So,  he,  Mossy, 
could  go  back  and  tell  that  to  his  client. 

Mossy  had  hardly  recovered  from  his  sea-sickness,  and  he 
was  never  at  his  best  out  of  London  and  his  familiar  haunts. 

248 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

He  had  retorted  that  it  was  a  "dirty  trick"  to  claim  against 
Derry  for  the  improvements  she  had  put  in  to  please  herself, 
and  he  did  not  suppose  for  a  moment  that  she  could  legally 
maintain  her  position.  She  had  replied  that  she  did  not  want 
to  be  told  her  duty  by  a  low  attorney  engaged  by  her  ungrateful 
nephew  to  turn  her  out  of  her  home. 

"But,  damn  it,  it  is  not  your  home,  it's  his." 

"Well,  let  him  try  and  get  it,"  she  had  replied,  ending  the 
interview. 

In  the  result  Mr.  Carruthers'  claims  had  become  more 
exorbitant.  Mossy  knew  he  had  failed,  and  he  wanted  the 
Dowager  to  suffer  for  his  failure.  He  had  not  gone  over  to 
Dublin  to  soothe.  Lady  Ranmore's  exacerbated  feelings,  he  had 
gone  there,  to  use  his  own  expression,  "to  try  to  collect  some 
oof  for  Derry."  The  idea  of  barring  her  from  Ranmore  and 
the  mausoleum  was  the  outcome  of  this  state  of  feeling.  Fortu- 
nately, it  had  not  occurred  to  him  until  his  return  to  England. 
Derry  had  prevented  his  carrying  out  the  scheme,  and  by  this 
time,  as  was  Mossy's  way,  he  had  forgotten  his  irritation. 

He  told  Derry  all  about  it,  sitting  there  by  his  side  in  the 
dingy  Strand  Hotel. 

It  hurt  Derry  horribly,  the  more  so  because  Mossy  conveyed 
it  badly.  Of  course  he  did  not  intend  to  hurt,  but  he  really 
thought  Lady  Ranmore's  feelings  against  Derry  and  his  wife 
were  as  strong  as  she  had  talked  them,  and  this  was  the  im- 
pression he  conveyed.  Mossy  said  authoritatively  that  any  idea 
of  reconciliation  was  quite  hopeless. 

"What  you  have  got  to  do,"  said  Mossy,  walking  up  and 
down  the  room,  the  inevitable  cigarette  hanging 'from  his  lip, 
"is  first  to  get  well,  and  out  of  this  filthy  place,  and  then  to  make 
up  your  mind  you  have  got  to  fight." 

"But,  Margaret — did  she  say  nothing  about  Margaret?  The 
Duchess,  I  mean.  Does  she  feel  like  that  about  me?" 

"Never  said  a  word  about  her,  never  mentioned  her  name — 
besides,  what  has  she  got  to  do  with  it  ?  She  has  renounced  any 
claim." 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  claim,"  Derry  answered  forlornly. 

249 


It  was  not  possible  for  Mossy  Leon  to  understand  that  Berry's 
depression  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  money,  or  the  possession 
of  the  Ranmore  rents. 

"Well,"  said  Mossy,  when  he  had  done  a  little  more  talking, 
"I  am  going  to  bring  Tanner  to  see  you  this  afternoon,  because 
that's  the  first  thing  to  do,  to  get  you  well,  and  out  of  this  place. 
I  will  see  Levy  for  you  and  get  your  bills  renewed.  You  will 
have  to  sign  another,  but  there  is  no  difficulty  about  that  By 
the  way,  Lady  Carrie  has  been  asking  after  you,  and  when  you 
are  coming  back.  She  is  in  the  devil  of  a  hole;  I've  spent  half 
my  time  the  last  few  weeks  staving  off  Lady  Carrie's  creditors. 
I  don't  know  what  the  deuce  she  expects  you  to  do  for  her,  or 
why  you  should  do  it,  but  her  instructions  have  been  to  stave 
them  off  until  you  came  back." 

That  was  the  unfortunate  moment  Rosaleen  chose  for  her 
return,  and  the  first  words  she  heard  as  she  re-entered  were 
Berry's: 

"Is  Lady  Carrie  wanting  money?  Well,  bring  me  the  bill 
to-morrow,  and  I  will  sign  it." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ROSALEEN  stood  a  moment,  hesitating,  on  the  threshold 
of  the  room. 
"Come  in,  come  in,"  Mossy  said.     "We've  done  our 
talk.     By  Jove,  that  boy  has  got  quite  a  color  from  his  outing. 
But  surely  he  is  too  heavy  for  you."     Rosaleen  had  gone  very 
pale,  and  the  intentness  of  Mossy's  look  discovered  it.     "I'm 
going  to  send  Tanner  up  directly  I  get  back.     I  believe  you  all 
want  change  of  air." 

"Come  in  and  shut  the  door,"  Deny  called  out,  almost 
impatiently.  He  had  the  invalid's  premonitory  shiver,  and  dread 
of  draughts.  But  Rosaleen  thought  he  was  vexed  at  her  entry, 
at  her  having  overheard  his  last  sentence. 

"Give  him  to  me,  I  like  kids;  he's  a  little  ripper,  isn't  he? 
Funny  thing,  he's  much  more  like  Terence  than  he  is  like  you," 
Mossy  said  to  Derry. 

" Oh!  put  him  down,  we  hadn't  half  finished  our  talk."  Now 
it  was  for  Rosaleen,  Derry  was  impatient  and  irritable,  but  she 
did  not  stay  to  consider  that. 

"I'm  taking  him  out  again.  I  only  came  in  for  a  moment, 
to  see  if  you  wanted  anything." 

"I'm  just  going.  I  only  stayed  until  you  came  back,  so  that 
he  shouldn't  be  alone.  I'll  come  round  again  to-morrow,  and 
hear  what  Tanner  says.  My  business  with  Derry  can  wait. 
I  don't  consider  him  fit  for  business.  Can't  you  take  him  off  to 
Brighton?" 

"Why  Brighton?"  This  from  the  invalid.  "I'll  be  all 
right  in  a  day  or  two.  I  should  have  been  all  right  before,  if  I 
could  have  got  out." 

"That's  just  my  point.  How  can  you  get  out  here ?  Unless, 
of  course,  you  only  want  to  get  as  far  as  Romano's.  Let  me 
arrange  something  for  you."  Now  it  was  to  Rosaleen  he  was 

251 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

speaking.  "I  know  some  awfully  nice  rooms  on  the  front  at 
Brighton.  I  went  there  last  week  with  ..." 

But  he  did  not  finish  his  sentence.  Mossy  was  an  unaccount- 
able person,  and  for  the  moment  could  think  of  nothing  but  the 
extraordinarily  clear  softness  of  her  porcelain  skin,  the  little  trick 
of  eyebrow,  and  the  upward  curve  of  the  bow  of  pink  lips,  the 
way  her  head  was  set  on  the  graceful  slope  of  her  shoulders, 
the  slender  perfection  of  her  figure  from  rounded  bust  to  waist, 
and  the  length  from  hip  to  foot. 

"I'll  come  round  again  to-morrow,  after  you  have  seen 
Tanner,"  were  his  last  words;  and  he  did  not  part  with  his 
cigarette  when  he  said  them. 

"I'm  sorry  I  interrupted  you  in  the  midst  of  your  business 
talk,"  Rosaleen  faltered  out  to  Derry  when  he  had  gone.  Derry 
noticed  the  falter  in  her  voice,  her  pallor.  He  put  it  down  to 
those  words  of  Mossy  about  the  boy.  She  could  not  even  bear 
Terence's  name  mentioned,  Derry  thought,  and  he  had  that 
little  spasm  of  retrospective  jealousy.  It  altered  his  manner 
to  her  for  the  moment,  in  some  subtle  way,  not  easy  to  convey. 
Poor  Rosaleen  thought  the  alteration  was  due  to  an  allegiance 
revived.  This  dreary  London  was  perhaps  full  of  happy 
reminiscences  for  him,  but  he  meant  her  not  to  know;  she  felt 
that  now.  If  he  had  only  married  her  out  of  pity,  he  never 
meant  that  she  should  know  there  had  been  anyone  else,  anyone 
whose  place  she  had  taken.  She  went  on  tending  him  as  if 
nothing  had  occurred. 

Dr.  Tanner,  sent  by  Mossy,  came  in  later  on.  He  was  a  big, 
fine  Scotsman,  the  last  man  in  the  world,  one  would  have 
imagined,  to  be  spending  his  life  writing  certificates  for  leading 
ladies.  And  he  knew  his  work  well,  too;  only  an  unfortunately 
active  thirst  kept  him  from  the  position  to  which  his  talents 
entitled  him. 

He  overhauled  Derry,  and  found  nothing  the  matter  with 
him  but  treatment,  and  he  duly  admired  Rosaleen,  about  whom 
Mossy  had  raved  to  him. 

He  sat  talking  with  them  quite  a  long  time,  and  the  upshot 
of  his  talk  was  that  they  were  to  take  the  eleven  o'clock  train 

252 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

for  Brighton  to-morrow  morning,  and  to  stay  there  until  the 
sea  breezes  undid  the  work  of  the  sudorifics. 

"And  I'm  going  to  get  me  strength  back  entirely,  and  be  able 
to  look  after  this  poor  girl  who  has  exhausted  herself  with 
nursing  me?" 

"I  don't  think  you  need  worry  about  Lady  Ranmore,"  Dr. 
Tanner  answered,  regarding  her  with  an  expression  of  solicitous 
interest,  really  thinking  that  for  once  Mossy  had  not  exaggerated. 
"To-day  is  Thursday,  isn't  it?  I  venture  to  think  that  by 
Sunday  you  will  both  of  you  have  forgotten  there  has  ever  been 
anything  the  matter.  But  don't  be  too  sparing  with  the  food"- 
this  was  to  Rosaleen  as  he  shook  hands  with  her — "and  mind 
you  see  that  he  gets  his  tonic.  Good-bye.  I  shall  not  even 
come  in  and  see  him  again.  So  that  tells  you  what  I  think 
about  him.  He  doesn't  want  a  doctor.  You  will  be  the  best 
doctor  for  him." 

"And  it's  nurse  and  doctor  she  has  been  to  me,"  Deny  called 
out  from  the  bed.  He  was  very  affectionate  to  her  and  apprecia- 
tive, not  at  all  different  from  what  he  had  always  been.  But 
she  saw  the  difference  that  was  not  there;  and,  lying  by  his  side 
that  night,  little  stings  and  fears  kept  her  awake.  What  was  it 
he  and  Mr.  Leon  had  been  saying  about  Lady  Carrie  Carthew 
when  she  came  into  the  room?  And  why  had  they  stopped 
abruptly?  He  had  been  impatient  to  her  about  shutting  the 
door,  him  that  was  never  impatient  with  her. 

The  next  day  saw  them  installed  in  those  rooms  at  Brighton 
recommended  by  Mossy.  These  were  in  every  way  an  improve- 
ment on  the  Strand  Hotel.  Deny  and  the  child  began  to  regain 
their  health  almost  in  a  few  hours. 

Mossy  ran  down  for  the  week-end. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  told  Deny.  "Levy  will  let  you  have 
another  eight  hundred  pounds;  you  will  have  to  give  him  a  bill 
for  twelve  hundred  pounds,  but  you  won't  mind  that.  He'll 
renew  the  others.  I've  seen  Carrie,  and  told  her  you  were  here. 
She  wants  to  see  you.  I  suppose  that's  all  right?" 

"I'll  see  her  directly  I  get  back.     I  don't  like  this  borrowing, 
but  I  suppose  there  is  no  help  for  it." 
17  253 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"My  dear  fellow,  what  does  it  matter  to  you?  You'll  be 
very  rich  one  day.  There's  any  amount  of  coal  at  Ranmore, 
I'm  told.  Your  title  is  clear.  It's  only  a  question  of  the  money 
that  has  been  spent.  If  I'd  started  first,  or  been  allowed  my 
own  way  earlier,  Carruthers  would  never  have  got  that  order 
for  the  rents  to  be  paid  into  Court." 

Mossy  came  down  ostensibly  to  talk  business  to  Deny.  In 
reality  Rosaleen  was  his  objective.  Why  not,  since  Derry  had 
an  affair  on  with  Lady  Carrie?  That  was  the  way  matters 
ranged  themselves  in  Mossy's  eyes.  He  did  not  understand 
any  other  relations  between  men  and  women.  Lady  Carrie 
had  corresponded  with  Derry;  now  she  was  looking  forward  to 
his  making  some  arrangements  with  her  creditors.  What  was 
the  obvious  conclusion?  Of  course,  it  was  the  one  at  which 
Mossy  had  arrived.  It  was  hard  lines  on  his  wife.  Mossy 
Leon,  for  whom  the  word  morality  had  no  meaning  at  all,  but 
who  was  soft-hearted,  and  a  good  fellow  all  round,  had  sympathy 
with  Derry,  and  thought  he  could  do  him  a  good  turn  by  occupy- 
ing his  wife's  attention.  He  also  had  sympathy  with  Rosaleen, 
and  from  Saturday  to  Monday,  for  two  or  three  consecutive 
weeks,  he  left  Flossie  Delaporte  to  her  own  devices,  and  on  the 
promenade  by  the  sea,  or  in  the  drawing-room  of  the  house  in 
the  King's  Road,  he  devoted  himself  to  the  consolation  of  young 
Lady  Ranmore.  His  sudden  infatuation  would  have  been 
patent  to  anyone  who  knew  him.  Mossy  was  transparent  when 
such  an  attack  came  to  him.  Derry,  of  course,  saw  only  friend- 
ship for  himself  in  Mossy's  appearance  at  Brighton,  and  Rosaleen 
saw  nothing  else.  She  thought  Mossy  Leon  was  very  kind  and 
attentive;  he  had  brought  them  all  here  to  this  sea  and  sun.  It 
was  through  him  Derry  was  himself  again,  and  little  Terence 
gurgling  with  laughter  in  the  day,  sleeping  through  the  night. 
Sitting  on  a  chair  by  the  window,  with  the  inevitable  needlework 
on  her  lap,  listening  while  Mossy  talked,  or  half  listening,  she 
smiled,  now  softly,  now  gaily,  at  Mossy's  stories.  Mossy  had 
no  end  of  stories.  Some  of  them  made  Derry  glance  askance 
in  her  direction,  some  of  them  she  could  not  understand  at  all, 
but  many  of  them  made  her  laugh.  Mossy,  as  he  talked,  could 

254 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

watch  the  dimple  play  in  the  corner  of  her  mouth,  and  the  way 
one  eyebrow  would  move  whimsically  up.  He  found  her  brogue 
delicious. 

When  a  girl's  heart  is  as  full  of  one  man  as  Rosaleen's  was  of 
Derry,  it  takes  a  long  time  for  her  to  understand  that  another  is 
making  love  to  her.  It  seems  so  patent  to  her  that  there  is  only 
one  man  in  the  world,  that  she  expects  everyone  else  to  see  eye 
to  eye  with  her.  Then,  there  were  many  other  reasons  why 
she  should  not  suspect  Mossy  of  entering  the  lists  for  her  favors. 
She  was  a  married  woman,  come  of  a  class  for  whom  the  sanctity 
of  marriage  vows  have  a  peculiar  significance,  and  Mossy  was 
a  friend  of  Berry's.  To  glance,  too,  from  one  man  to  the  other 
made  the  idea  absurd.  Derry  had  gained  in  good  looks  since 
he  had  married,  his  face  had  become  more  set,  instinct  with 
character;  it  was  the  face  of  a  man  who  had  done  good  work, 
and  was  conscious  of  it;  who  had  carried  out  a  vow,  and  was 
full  of  the  quiet  content  of  it;  who  had  won  a  good  woman's 
love  and  knew  how  to  keep  it.  He  was  not,  perhaps,  handsome; 
the  nose  was  too  broad  and  the  chin  too  square,  he  was  too 
swart  of  skin.  His  straight  hair  fell  untidily  about  his  rugged 
brow;  but  his  figure  was  magnificent.  And  now  he  carried  his 
six  foot  two  as  if  the  world  belonged  to  him.  When  they  walked 
along  the  King's  Road,  or  up  the  Parade,  Rosaleen  thought 
there  was  neither  woman  nor  girl  who  did  not  look  at  Derry  as 
he  went  by.  She  was  never  without  her  fulfilment  of  pride  in 
him.  It  would  have  been  impossible  for  her  to  imagine  Mossy 
Leon,  or  anybody  else,  thinking  to  make  love  to  her  when  she 
had  Derry. 

Mossy  was  definitely  Semitic,  and  already,  at  five-and-thirty, 
his  indulgence  in  the  pleasures  of  the  table  had  given  him  a 
somewhat  gross  appearance.  His  black  eyes  were  bright  and 
sharp;  he  inclined  to  baldness,  and  he  was  an  indefatigable 
talker.  He  was  always  elaborately  dressed,  glossy,  and  brilliantly 
manicured;  on  one  hand  he  wore  two  gipsy  rings,  on  the  other 
he  disported  the  family  seal.  This  had  been  Ethel's  wedding 
present;  it  bore  the  crest  of  her  family,  of  course.  Mossy's 
family  crest  would  have  been  three  hats  rampant,  he  said,  or 

255 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

three  balls  pendant.  His  sense  of  humor  did  not  fail  when  he 
talked  about  himself,  but  it  certainly  stayed  in  the  background 
when  he  could  contemplate  Lord  Ranmore's  wife  reciprocating 
his  admiration. 

He  tried  very  hard.  He  told  her  all  about  Iris  Maclntoy's 
turquoises,  and  May  Ferrand's  comments  upon  them,  about 
both  their  salaries,  and  how  Iris  made  nine  shillings  a  week  the 
first  year  she  was  on  the  stage,  and  £500  a  week  the  third,  and 
was  no  more  solvent  in  the  third  than  she  had  been  in  the  first. 
He  spared  no  detail  of  Lord  Ramkelley's  recklessness  with 
Ellaline  Gavin,  and  was  eloquent  of  dinners  at  Taplow  and 
jaunts  to  Maidenhead,  and  confidential  as  to  what  Jenny  said 
to  Zena,  and  what  Lily  said  to  Maud.  Rosaleen  did  not 
listen  to  him  very  attentively;  she  was  generally  wondering 
whether  the  new  nurse  remembered  that  Terence  liked  a  sponge- 
finger  with  his  milk  at  eleven,  or  that  it  was  time  for  Derry  to 
have  his  tonic. 

Mossy's  infatuation  lasted  over  three  week-ends,  and  he  never 
succeeded  even  in  making  her  understand  what  he  was  trying 
to  tell  her.  Mossy's  temperament  required  encouragement 
and  he  was  used  to  receiving  it,  having  both  influence  and 
diamonds  to  give  away.  He  began  to  think  Rosaleen,  although 
so  beautiful,  must  be  stupid;  but,  after  all,  he  was  a  clever  man, 
and  he  noted  the  direction  of  her  eyes,  and  gradually  began  to 
understand  the  position.  By  that  time,  however,  he  had,  quite 
without  knowing  how  he  got  there,  or  at  what  exact  period  he 
had  fallen  out  of  love  and  into  friendship,  arrived  at  a  very 
genuine  appreciation  of  her  character,  and  he  thought  Derry  a 
very  lucky  fellow,  contrasting  his  own  lot  with  something 
perilously  like  a  heartache.  If  he  had  had  a  wife  who  adored 
him,  and  a  kid  like  theirs,  probably  there  would  have  been  no 
Flossies,  nor  interests  apart  from  Grosvenor  Square.  One  of 
the  strange  things  about  Mossy  was  his  appreciation  of  domes- 
ticity. Another  that  he  was  never  entirely  disillusioned  about 
Ethel.  He  always  thought  there  was  good  in  her,  and  that  it 
was  something  of  his  own  fault  if  it  had  never  flowered.  She 
could  not  help  being  a  snob,  or  having  no  sense  of  humor.  If 

256 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

she  had  only  known  the  right  people!  He  spent  these  few 
week-ends  watching  Rosaleen  waiting  upon  Derry,  playing  with 
her  baby,  working  for  both  of  them.  Then  he  thought  it  would 
be  a  capital  idea  if  she  and  Ethel  made  friends.  He  had 
forgotten  the  fiasco  that  had  attended  his  first  attempt  in  this 
direction. 

Ethel  had  not  forgotten  it.  It  was  just  the  sort  of  thing  that 
would  have  dwelt  in  her  memory,  even  had  Ellaline  forgotten 
to  remind  her  of  it,  or  Bianca  had  not  written. 

"The  Ranmores  are  coming  to  town  at  the  end  of  the  week," 
Mossy  announced,  when  he  got  back  to  Grosvenor  Square  one 
Monday.  Ethel  knew  that  they  were  at  Brighton,  and  that 
Mossy  was  visiting  Lord  Ranmore  on  business.  She  did  not 
go  beyond  this.  If  she  ever  suspected  Mossy  of  being  unfaithful 
to  her,  it  had  no  effect  upon  her  except  to  make  her  more  extrava- 
gant. She  had  no  capacity  for  jealousy;  but  she  resented  his 
spending  money  on  anybody  but  herself.  Mossy  had  been  for 
many  week-ends  to  Brighton  before  the  Ranmores  had  gone 
there;  and  business  was  always  his  excuse. 

"Coming  back  to  town,  are  they?  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to 
call!  Rather  a  bore,  isn't  it?  I  suppose  she  hasn't  improved 
at  all  ?" 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean?"  Mossy's  manners  retro- 
graded under  Ethel's  superior  airs. 

"I  mean  that  I  suppose  she  still  dresses  like  a  housemaid, 
and  drinks  out  of  the  finger-glasses." 

"She  dresses  a  damn  sight  better  than  Mrs.  Jobson,  or  any 
of  that  crowd!  As  for  her  behavior,  I  wish  to  God  any  of  your 
friends  were  as  well-mannered!" 

"There  is  no  use  getting  into  a  rage  about  it.  If  they  are 
clients  of  yours,  of  course  I  shall  call."  Ethel  was  quite  willing 
to  be  a  helpmate  to  her  husband  in  this  way,  when  his  clients 
wore  titles. 

"Much  good  your  calling  will  do  her!"  Mossy  was  irritable 
this  evening;  he  was  fresh  from  that  domestic  interior,  those 
modest  apartments,  where  love  dwelt.  And  Grosvenor  Square, 
the  men-servants,  the  elaborate  dinner,  the  bills  that  littered 

257 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

the  hall-table,  gave  him  an  uneasy  sense  that  he  was  getting 
little  for  his  money. 

"And  I  suppose  you'll  get  Mrs.  Streeter,  or  Mrs.  Jobson,  to 
go  with  you.  I  wish  you'd  go  alone,  and  give  yourself  a  chance. 
Get  to  know  her." 

Ethel  laughed. 

"Oh!  I  got  to  know  her  well  enough  at  the  dinner-party  I 
gave  for  her.  She  told  me  she  had  been  maid,  or  housemaid  or 
something.  No,  thank  you;  I  don't  want  to  know  any  more 
about  her  than  I  do.  But  I'll  call,  of  course.  Where  are  they 
staying?  Not  in  Albany  Street  still,  I  hope?" 

"I  wanted  you  to  look  up  a  furnished  flat  for  them.  I 
suppose  that  won't  be  too  much  trouble?  They  will  have  to 
stay  in  London  until  we  get  nearer  a  settlement,  I  know  what 
Carruthers  is  playing  up  for,  of  course,  but  I'm  not  going  to 
oblige  him." 

"Mrs.  Persian  wants  to  let  her  flat.  She  has  taken  a  cottage 
on  the  river." 

"Mrs.  Persian?  That's  the  woman  with  a  sweet  smile  and 
a  bad  word  for  everybody,  isn't  it?  Another  of  your  Jobson 
lot.  What's  her  flat  like?" 

"It's  in  Westminster.  I  don't  think  it's  anything  out  of  the 
way.  She  isn't  at  all  well  off,  but  her  husband  was  one  of  the 
De  Clintons." 

"  Oh,  yes!  I  remember.  She  tried  to  get  her  marriage  annulled 
— the  case  was  heard  in  camera.  She  did  not  succeed,  and  has 
behaved  ever  since  as  if  she  knew  he  could  get  no  redress  either. 
A  well-matched  pair!  What  does  she  want  for  her  flat?" 

"Very  little,  I  think.     Six  or  eight  pounds  a  week." 

"I'll  see  it  myself  in  the  morning.  You've  got  the  address. 
Is  it  empty?" 

"Yes,  she  went  away  last  week." 

"They  could  get  in  by  Friday,  then?  What  twaddle  it  is  to 
talk  of  the  way  Lady  Ranmore  dresses!  She  is  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  women  I  have  ever  seen.  You  can  take  it  from  me 
she's  going  to  make  a  sensation." 

"A  sensation!"     Ethel  pricked  up  her  ears. 

258 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

''That's  exactly  it.  As  soon  as  ever  they  are  settled,  I'm 
going  to  give  a  party  for  them.  Not  your  sort  of  party,  that  she 
bolted  from  before — and  no  wonder!  all  buckram  and  boredom. 
But  just  the  right  people,  the  people  she'll  like  to  meet." 

Mossy  had  fallen  out  of  love  and  into  friendship ;  now  he  would 
relegate  Rosaleen  into  the  background  where  he  kept  his  instinct- 
ive connoisseurship  of  pictures  and  French  furniture,  cinquo- 
cento  work  and  enamels.  But  it  was  Mossy's  way  to  feel 
tenderness  for  any  woman  on  whom  he  had  looked  with  an 
amorous  eye;  such  a  one  was  never  the  same  again  as  other 
women  to  him.  He  wanted  to  do  things  for  her.  Some  instinct 
told  him  Lady  Ranmore  was  not  a  completely  happy  woman, 
notwithstanding  her  undisguised  devotion  to  husband  and 
child.  He  wanted  her  to  be  happy.  Mossy's  strange  panaceas 
for  any  trouble  were  all  to  be  at  her  disposal,  Deny  must  buy 
her  some  jewelry,  Ethel  should  make  friends  with  her,  and  he 
would  give  a  theatrical  party  for  her. 

He  talked  to  Ethel  about  the  party  he  would  give  as  soon  as 
the  Ranmores  were  established  in  town,  and  he  asked  her  to 
see  about  the  flat  for  them  the  first  thing  in  the  morning. 
He  could  talk  about  nothing  but  the  Ranmores  that 
evening.  Ethel  was  full  of  misgivings;  the  title  allured  her, 
but  her  last  fiasco  obscured  it.  It  was  finally  agreed,  to  the 
satisfaction  of  both,  that  none  of  Ethel's  friends  should  come  to 
the  party.  She  would  first  see  if  Lady  Ranmore  had  improved. 

The  flat  in  Westminster  was  duly  inspected  and  taken.  In 
the  end  Mossy  left  that  in  Ethel's  hands.  Once  it  had  seized 
upon  his  imagination  to  give  a  theatrical  party  in  Rosaleen's 
honor,  this  absorbed  him  entirely. 

It  was  very  rarely  Mossy  gave  a  party  in  Grosvenor  Square. 
The  Savoy,  the  Ritz,  or  the  Carlton  was  generally  the  scene  of 
his  hospitalities.  Grosvenor  Square  was  his  wife's  department. 
But  he  had  a  genius  for  entertaining,  and  when  he  took  in  hand 
a  thing  of  this  kind  it  was  apt  to  be  well  done.  When  Ethel 
selected  her  guests  she  showed  the  quality  of  her  mind.  The 
choice  fell  upon  the  inferior  pseudo-smart,  the  admiring  acquaint- 
ances from  the  suburbs,  the  combination  of  dull  respectability 

259 


and  snobbery  which  really  constituted  her  ideal  society.  Mossy's 
ideals  were  different.  He  was  quite  frank  about  it. 

"I  don't  want  your  West  Kensington  crowd  at  all.  I  hate 
'respectable'  people!  They  are  a  damn  sight  more  disreputable 
than  the  others,  and  not  half  so  amusing.  Do  you  think  that 
Irish  hog  Mrs.  Jobson  drags  about  with  her  is  different  from 
any  other  man  who  goes  about  with  a  woman?  And  she  jaws 
about  Svespectability!'  Give  me  a  good-hearted,  good- 
natured,  and,  above  all,  a  good-looking  woman,  and  what  do 
I  care  what  she  does  with  her  spare  time  ?  I  '11  show  you  how 
to  give  a  party." 

He  grew  quite  excited  about  it  as  the  time  went  on.  He 
would  have  it  on  a  Sunday  night.  Then  he  could  get  a  real 
good  entertainment — all  the  music-hall  people,  as  well  as  the 
others.  He  decided  he  would  have  quite  a  small  dinner-party, 
only  eight  or  ten,  then  as  many  as  he  could  get  in  the  evening, 
and  a  big  supper. 

Mossy  had  taste.  When  he  began  to  visualize  his  entertain- 
ment, he  execrated  Ethel's  upholstery,  the  carton  pierre,  the 
vieux  rose  walls  and  furniture.  He  had  so  little  interest  in  it 
that  he  had  left  it  to  her.  Now  he  could  comfort  himself  only 
with  the  knowledge  that  there  were  no  bad  pictures  on  the 
walls.  The  few  water-colors  by  David  Cox,  Varley,  Copley 
Fielding,  and  Crome  were  of  his  purchasing,  and  would  have 
redeemed  any  less  ostentatious  hangings. 

It  was  the  list  for  the  dinner  that  bothered  him.  Lady  Carrie 
wanted  to  meet  Derry;  and  naturally  Derry  would  like  to  meet 
her.  But  how  about  Rosaleen?  Mossy  knew  the  two  women 
had  not  yet  met.  Did  Derry  want  to  keep  them  apart  ?  There 
was  only  one  way  to  find  out — that  was  to  ask  Derry  when  he 
came  up  on  Friday.  But  the  party  was  fixed  for  Sunday  week, 
and  there  was  but  little  time  for  all  there  was  to  be  done. 

Ethel,  although  she  hated  Carrie,  who  jeered  openly  at  her 
pretensions  and  made  fun  of  her,  thought  it  only  right  she  should 
be  invited.  For  the  Ranmores  and  she  were  cousins,  and, 
much  as  Ethel  disliked  Lady  Carrie,  she  could  not  forget  that 
she  was  the  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Wickford.  It  was  a  very 

260 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

difficult  point  to  decide.  Mossy  could  not  help  talking  about 
his  party  to  everybody  he  met,  and  he  had  to  meet  Carrie  on 
business  that  very  week.  He  boasted  of  the  celebrities  who 
had  promised  to  attend — Lord  Windermere  and  Iris  Maclntoy, 
Mrs.  Maltravers  and  Nat  Simons.  Mossy 's  celebrities,  like 
prize  fruit  at  a  Horticultural  show,  were  too  showy  to  be  quite 
sweet.  They  were  fruit  of  magnificent  appearance,  grown  for 
show,  something  wanting  in  purity  of  flavor,  perhaps.  But 
Lady  Carrie  thought  his  party  would  be  great  fun.  She  said 
she  would  like  to  come  very  much.  Mossy 's  house  was  neutral 
ground,  she  could  meet  anyone  there;  it  was  just  an  excursion 
into  Bohemia.  Not  like  Ethel's  dreadful  parties,  another  of 
which  she  vowed  she  would  never  attend. 

Mossy  did  not  ask  her  if  she  minded  meeting  Derry's  wife. 
What  was  the  use,  since  she  had  said  she  would  come,  almost 
before  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  ask  her?  The  same  argu- 
ment applied  to  Deny;  the  thing  had  decided  itself. 


MOSSY  was  not  very  pleased  with  Mrs.  Persian's  flat 
when  he  went  to  see  the  Ranmores  and  tell  them  of  the 
entertainment  he  was  preparing  in  their  honor.  He 
found  it  stuffy,  tasteless,  and  ill-furnished.  And,  indeed,  it  was 
all  that.  The  last  thing  he  could  think  was  that  these  common- 
place wall-papers  and  engravings,  these  saddle-back  sofas  and 
chairs,  could  be  background  for  tragedy.  Double  doors  divided 
the  dining  and  drawing-room.  When  they  were  set  open  there 
was  enough  air  in  the  room,  which  was  about  all  that  interested 
Deny.  It  was  only  a  halting-place  for  him  on  his  way  to 
Ranmore. 

"I  say,  Deny,  what's  Lady  Ranmore  going  to  wear  at  my 
party?  Let  me  choose  a  dress  for  her,  will  you?  I  want  her 
to  outshine  everybody  else.  She  ought  to,  you  know,  although 
Julie  Stormont  is  coming.  By  the  way,  did  I  tell  you  that  Julie 
was  coming?  She's  the  best-dressed  woman  in  London." 

Mossy  talked  as  he  wandered  round  the  rooms,  and  grumbled 
at  them,  commenting  on  their  frowsiness,  and  giving  the  names 
of  a  few  of  the  people  who  were  attending  his  party. 

"I'll  be  choosing  her  a  fine  new  dress  myself,"  Deny  said, 
looking  at  her  affectionately.  He  knew  Mossy  admired  Rosa- 
leen;  but  then,  that  did  not  seem  at  all  wonderful  to  him.  Some- 
times he  had  thought,  perhaps,  down  at  Brighton,  that  Mossy 
eyed  her  a  thought  too  boldly;  but  it  was  Mossy 's  way,  and  it 
wasn't  a  fuss  he'd  be  making  about  it.  "She'll  look  well  in 
whatever  she  wears." 

Rosaleen,  with  heightened  color,  protested  she  didn't  want 
a  new  dress,  and  she  didn't  want  to  go  to  the  party  at  all.  It 
was  her  vivid  recollection  of  the  last  one  that  dyed  her  cheeks. 
Mossy  interpreted  her  flush  conectly.  He  would  not  allude 

262 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

to  it  directly,  he  thought  whatever  had  occurred  then  was  best 
forgotten. 

"I'll  guarantee  you  shall  enjoy  yourself,  Lady  Ranmore. 
Oscar  Paton  is  coming,  and  Mrs.  Maltravers,  Nat  Simons  and 
Clarice  Vane,  Lord  Windermere,  and  .  .  .  and  ..."  He 
cleared  his  throat,  and  hesitated.  He  looked  from  one  to  another 
relit  his  cigarette  that  had  gone  out,  and  added  tamely — it 
seemed  tame  after  the  other  names — "and  Lady  Carrie  .  .  ." 

It  seemed  to  Rosaleen  she  could  hear  the  silence  that  followed; 
but  they  were  only  her  own  heart-beats  she  heard.  Deny  gave 
her  a  glance;  she  did  not  meet  his  eyes,  but  she  knew  he  had 
looked  at  her. 

"Lady  Carrie  coming!  Is  she?  Now,  that's  good  news." 
But  he  wasn't  very  sure  about  it.  "My  wife  has  never  met 
her." 

"You've  never  met  her?"  Mossy  turned  inquiringly  to 
Rosaleen.  "She  is  good  company." 

"Good  company,  is  she?"  Rosaleen  answered  dully.  Both 
of  them  now  began  to  speak  of  Lady  Carrie  Carthew  somewhat 
eagerly,  as  if  the  moment  had  been  embarrassing,  but  the 
embarrassment  was  over. 

"She  can  imitate  anyone  she  meets,  you'd  think  you  heard 
them  speaking.  You  should  hear  her  do  Mrs.  Jobson  and 
Sir  Patrick." 

"She  has  had  very  hard  luck  one  way  and  another,"  Derry 
began.  Rosaleen  must  never  know  that  it  was  Terence  who 
had  consoled  her. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  bad  luck.  She  puts  in  a 
pretty  good  time,  I  can  tell  you.  She  is  always  short  of  money, 
if  that's  what  you  call  bad  luck;  but  which  of  us  isn't?" 

"She  is  lonely.   ..." 

"Rats!     The  place  is  always  full  of  men." 

"Perhaps  she  has  told  Derry  she  is  lonely,"  Rosaleen  ven- 
tured; her  lips  were  trembling,  but  she  was  brave  enough  to 
want  them  to  go  on.  She  wanted  to  hear  more,  but  she  did 
not  know  what  it  was  she  wanted  to  hear.  Derry,  who  was  not 
good  at  any  sort  of  dissimulation,  who  bungled  and  grew  red, 

263 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

and  was  noisy  with  the  furniture,  knocking  about  a  footstool, 
almost  overturning  a  lamp,  only  wanted  to  change  the  con- 
versation. He  was  afraid  of  Terence's  name  being  brought 
up  before  Rosaleen.  He  did  not  know  what  Mossy  would  say, 
Mossy,  who  had  known  better  than  himself  what  were  the 
relations  between  her  and  Terence. 

"She's  lonely  enough,  and  hard  up  besides.  And  as  for 
the  men.  .  .  .  Here,  have  a  whiskey-and-soda,  Mossy.  Tell 
us  more  about  the  fine  party  of  yours.  What's  the  good  of 
talking  about  Lady  Carrie?  Rosaleen  will  see  her,  and  I'll 
be  bound  she'll  like  her." 

Mossy  saw  that  Derry  was  embarrassed,  and  talking  to  cover 
it,  and  he  thought  it  was,  perhaps,  quite  natural;  but  Lady 
Carrie  and  Rosaleen  had  got  to  meet,  so  what  was  the  use  of 
bothering?  He  was  beginning  a  dissertation  upon  her;  he  did 
not  want  Derry  to  have  any  illusions.  Whatever  he  was  doing 
he  had  better  do  with  his  eyes  open. 

"I  like  the  idea  of  Lady  Carrie  being  lonely!"  he  repeated. 

Derry  went  straight  at  it  then.  After  all,  he  need  not  hear 
anything  for  which  he  had  no  mind. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  about  Lady  Carrie  at  all,"  he  said 
to  Mossy,  still  with  that  heightened  color.  "Rosaleen  doesn't 
know  her,  and  you'll  only  be  prejudicing  her.  You're  such  a 
prejudiced  fellow  yourself.  How  about  that  new  dress,  though  ? 
I  thought  you  were  taking  such  an  interest  in  it,  and  were  going 
to  advise  as  to  the  color." 

"Well,  that  was  partly  because  I  wanted  her  to  cut  out 
Carrie  ..."  but  he  saw  the  frown  on  Derry 's  brow. 

"It's  a  grand  creature  she  is,  then?"  Rosaleen  asked. 

"Grand!  Not  a  bit  of  it.  What  made  you  think  she  was 
grand?  She's  quite  a  little  woman;  it's  always  these  little 
women  who  ..." 

But  now  Derry  literally  shouted  at  him. 

"Have  done  about  Lady  Carrie!  I'm  not  wanting  her 
discussed,  I'm  telling  you  .  .  ."  He  was  ashamed  of  his 
violence.  But  Rosaleen  must  not  hear  about  her  and  Terence. 

"All  right,  old  fellow,  all  right."     Mossy  was  confused  in 

264 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

his  opinions.  He  thought  Deny  a  fool,  considering  what  a 
far  more  beautiful  woman  his  wife  was  than  Carrie  Carthew. 
He  thought,  too,  that  Rosaleen  looked  unhappy;  her  face  was 
white,  and  the  stars  had  gone  out  of  her  eyes,  that  now  were 
sombre  and  brooding  like  a  dark  night.  Mossy  was  sorry  she 
should  look  sad. 

"Talking  of  dress  reminds  me  that  Percy  Fullerton  is  coming, 
too.  You  must  leave  your  dress  to  me,  Lady  Ranmore.  Percy 
has  often  said  he'd  rather  have  a  word  of  appreciation  from  me, 
when  he  has  really  done  himself  credit  in  dressing  a  show,  than 
a  whole  column  of  praise  from  a  critic  who  didn't  know  red 
from  magenta." 

Deny  plunged  eagerly  into  the  question,  looking  at  her  with 
an  attempt  at  envisaging  her  in  a  ball-dress. 

"She  must  wear  green,  for  the  honor  of  old  Ireland.  ..." 
There  was  love  in  his  eyes,  had  she  but  been  able  to  see  it,  and, 
a  great  anxiety  to  know  if  a  chance  word  had  hurt  her,  if  she 
had  ever  guessed  she  had  had  a  rival  with  Terence.  She  saw 
the  anxiety,  but  missed  the  love. 

Mossy  scoffed  at  the  idea  of  green. 

"My  dear  fellow,  we've  got  to  bring  out  her  tones,  not  to 
deaden  them.  Green  is  all  very  well  for  girls  with  red  hair, 
sometimes  for  a  very  pale  blonde;  it's  no  good  at  all  for  a  real 
brunette.  Red  now,  if  we  had  to  decide  on  a  crude  color, 
would  be  a  thousand  times  better;  but  we'll  do  better  than  that. 
You  leave  it  to  me ;  I  '11  see  Madame  Festoon,  and  talk  it  over 
with  her." 

Deny  would  not  leave  it  to  anybody,  although  he  was  quite 
ready  to  discuss  it  with  Mossy,  or  with  all  the  world.  The 
subject  seemed  of  absorbing  interest. 

After  Mossy  had  left,  not  without  giving  Derry  the  name  and 
address  of  the  dressmaker,  and  urging  the  necessity  for  seeing  the 
selected  color  by  artificial  light,  Rosaleen  found  the  strength  to  ask : 

"Is  it  for  this  Lady  Carrie  Carthew,  then,  that  you  want  me 
to  be  so  fine?" 

Derry's  reply,  "Well,  I'll  be  proud  to  show  you  to  her,"  did 
not  seem  all  the  answer  she  wanted. 

265 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

In  the  short  silence  that  fell  between  them  she  felt  wildly  that 
she  must  make  an  effort  to  know  what  it  was  he  was  trying  to 
hide  from  her.  Of  course  she  knew  it  was  only  to  save  her 
feelings  he  would  practise  dissimulation.  Derry's  goodness 
could  never  be  in  question;  but  he  had  almost  been  forced  into 
his  marriage  with  her.  She  forgot  how  happy  they  had  been 
together.  Was  it,  then,  true  that  he  had  known  and  cared  for 
another  woman,  and  that  only  his  great  chivalry,  and  his  great 
care  for  his  cousin's  memory  had  prompted  his  marriage?  It 
was  good  he  was  .  .  .  but,  oh!  if  it  were  only  his  love  he  had 
given  her  rather  than  his  pity!  She  choked  back  the  sob  in 
her  throat. 

"You  don't  want  to  talk  about  her  to  me,"  she  said  then 
desperately. 

He  went  over  to  where  she  stood  by  the  window,  looking 
blankly  out  at  the  blank  wall;  he  put  his  arm  about  her,  never 
dreaming  how  she  was  misunderstanding. 

"Not  if  you  don't  mind,"  he  said.  "We've  plenty  else  to 
talk  about,  you  and  I." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  day  of  Mossy 's  party  came  at  last.  Rosaleen  had 
made  vain  protests  first  against  going  at  all,  and  then 
about  the  fine  new  dress.  Mossy  and  Derry  together 
had  overridden  all  her  objections.  Mossy  said  he  was  only 
giving  the  party  for  her.  Derry  said  more  than  once  that  it 
was  proud  he'd  be  to  see  her  dressed  like  a  queen.  Derry  was 
always  saying  pretty  things  to  her.  Now  with  determination 
she  tried  to  shut  her  mind,  and  her  memory,  against  the  doubts 
and  fears  that  encompassed  her. 

She  had  gone  with  him  to  the  great  modiste  whom  Mossy 
had  recommended,  and  chosen  her  dress,  although,  indeed, 
she  was  not  allowed  to  interfere  over  much,  for  Madame  Festoon 
knew  so  exactly  what  was  required.  She  admitted  that  Mr. 
Leon  had  spoken  to  her  of  Lady  Ranmore;  Mr.  Leon  was  a 
good  customer  of  hers.  Mossy  had  once  boasted  to  Derry  that 
he  had  given  more  clothes  to  more  women  than  any  other  man 
in  England,  except,  perhaps,  Nat  Simons;  but  then  his  were  in 
the  way  of  business.  Derry  had  never  in  his  life  ordered  a 
dress  for  any  woman  but  Rosaleen.  He  flattered  himself  into 
thinking  he  ordered  this  one.  He  did  not  even  know  its  color 
when  he  went  into  the  bedroom  to  see  her,  all  arrayed  for  con- 
quest, as  he  told  her  jestingly,  before  they  set  forth  for  Gros- 
venor  Square. 

"I  thought  it  was  to  be  white!"  he  exclaimed.  And  there 
was  so  little  color  in  it,  it  well  might  have  been  white;  but  just 
that  little  color  there  was,  and  the  sheen  of  the  satin,  brought 
out,  as  Mossy  had  promised,  every  eggshell  tint  of  the  fair  skin, 
it  deepened  the  iris  of  her  syes,  and  the  lights  of  it  matched  the 
light  that  excitement  brought  into  the  center  of  them.  Her 
hair,  taken  simply  back  from  her  face,  lay  in  a  great  coil  low 
down  on  her  neck.  Rosaleen 's  neck  had  the  grace  of  a  swan. 

267 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

The  white  slenderness  of  her  small  bust  was  draped  with  filmy 
lace,  but  it  lay  like  snow  beneath  the  lace,  yet  snow  with  the 
sun  on  it,  almost  dazzling. 

"Mossy  said  I  ought  to  have  bought  you  diamonds,  but  it's 
no  jewels  you  want,  it's  a  jewel  yourself  you  are,"  Deny  exclaimed 
when  he  looked  upon  her. 

"You  are  pleased?" 

"Now,  if  I  just  gathered  you  up  in  my  arms  to  tell  you  how 
pleased  I  am,  I'd  spoil  everything;  so  don't  tempt  me  by  stand- 
ing there." 

She  was  young  enough  to  be  excited  by  a  new  dress,  and  her 
own  reflection  in  her  mirror,  and  above  all  by  Berry's  praise. 
She  put  aside  all  doubts  and  misgivings,  and  only  remembered 
that,  at  least,  she  was  his  wife,  and  that  to-night  he  was  pleased 
with  her.  It  was  his  appreciation  that  lit  the  stars  in  her  eyes. 
Happiness  accentuated  her  beauty.  Derry  was  really  proud 
of  her,  and  she,  as  always,  of  him.  Derry,  like  all  dark  men, 
looked  his  best  in  evening  dress. 

They  were  a  very  noticeable  couple  as  they  followed  their 
names  into  Mossy 's  drawing-room,  and  were  received  in  Ethel 's 
best  manner,  and  with  Mossy 's  real  cordiality. 

"Ripping,  isn't  she?"  he  said  aside  to  Deny.  Mossy's 
black  eyes  glistened  as  they  went  over  the  detail  of  her  dress. 
Mossy  was  a  splendid  host  when  the  whole  conduct  of  affairs 
was  in  his  hands,  as  it  was  to-night.  He  made  every  guest  feel 
that  he  or  she  was  the  guest  of  the  evening,  and  that  the  entertain- 
ment was  given  in  his  or  her  honor.  Ethel  could  never  have 
been  a  good  hostess.  All  the  time  her  mind  was  on  herself, 
and  on  the  effect  she  was  making.  She  was  certainly  handsome, 
and  her  waist  measurement  was  not  more  than  twenty  inches, 
if  that.  All  the  Ayscoughs  prided  themselves  on  their  genteel 
slimness.  In  truth,  there  was  no  milk  of  human  kindness  in 
any  of  them  that  could  serve  for  fattening.  Ethel  held  herself 
very  erect  in  her  new  black  velvet;  her  hard,  handsome  eyes 
were  critical  on  Rosaleen,  but,  once  they  were  satisfied,  they 
easily  sought  the  mirror  between  the  windows.  She  saw  that 
Lady  Ranmore  wore  no  jewelry,  while  her  own  coronet  of 

268 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

diamonds  sparkled  on  her  elaborate  coiffure.  Now  she  could 
receive  her  other  guests  with  an  easy  mind.  She  really  thought 
she  looked  much  more  like  a  peeress  than  Lady  Ranmore. 

The  dinner  party  was  to  be  small,  only  ten  people.  Rosaleen 
had  hardly  collected  her  faculties  before  she  found  herself  being 
piloted  downstairs  by  Mossy.  She  had  been  hot  and  cold, 
looking  this  way  and  that,  dreading  to  recognize  Lady  Carrie 
Carthew,  fearful  all  at  once,  she  hardly  knew  of  what.  Derry 
was  so  fine  and  precious  a  possession  to  her;  little  chills  of 
terror  shook  her  as  she  went  down  stairs  with  Mossy,  because 
some  other  hand  was  on  his  arm,  and  she  heard  his  deep  voice 
answering  a  low  one. 

"We've  a  crowd  coming  in  the  evening,"  Mossy  said,  "but 
I  like  a  small  dinner  party.  Ten  is  two  too  many,  but  one  never 
can  be  certain  of  Lady  Carrie." 

Now  they  were  seated  at  the  round  table  with  its  flat  decoration 
of  mauve  orchids.  Among  the  orchids  were  poised  little  dancing 
figures,  dressed,  Mossy  told  Rosaleen,  like  the  chorus  of  flowers 
in  the  new  play  at  the  "Frivolity";  each  bearing  an  electric 
lamp. 

"That  was  my  own  idea;  good  isn't  it?  We  shall  have  the 
whole  fifty  on  the  supper- table."  He  was  quite  exultant  over 
the  effect.  Rosaleen's  eyes  were  on  the  table,  indeed,  she 
found  it  beautiful,  she  told  him.  Those  eyes  of  hers  could  not, 
as  yet,  wander  any  further,  and  her  heart-beats  were  stifling 
her.  It  was  only  Lady  Carrie  she  wanted,  and  dreaded,  to  see; 
she  who  had  written  to  Derry  in  Siam,  about  whom  he  did  not 
want  to  talk.  Yet  now  she  heard  him  talk.  She  heard  his 
voice  more  clearly  than  she  heard  Mossy's,  although  Mossy 
never  stopped  talking. 

But  presently,  when  she  found  the  courage  to  raise  her  eyes, 
her  transient  color  coming  and  going,  she  found  she  could  not 
see  Lady  Carrie  from  where  she  sat,  and  Derry,  too,  was  almost 
hidden  from  her.  Then  she  was  able  to  follow  what  Mossy 
was  telling  her  about  his  guests,  and  realize  that  he  was  intro- 
ducing her  to  her  vis-a-vis,  and  the  man  who  sat  next  to  her. 

Carrie,  in  the  meantime,  up  at  the  top  of  the  table,  had  no 
18  269 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

interest  at  all  in  Derry's  wife,  but  a  great  deal,  for  the  moment, 
in  Derry  himself. 

There  was  no  one  more  capable  than  Carrie  of  appreciating 
the  alteration  in  Derry.  He  had  grown  from  a  great  awkward 
boy  into  fine  manhood.  He  was  even  more  attractive  than 
Terence  had  been,  she  thought.  And  to-night  he  had  something 
of  Terence's  gaiety. 

"I  am  going  to  save  you  from  Mrs.  Mossy  Leon,"  was  almost 
the  first  thing  she  said  to  him.  "You  are  sure  to  be  on  the  other 
side  of  her,  and  she  will  ask  you,  as  loudly  as  possible,  so  that 
everyone  at  the  table  may  hear,  and  think  she  is  a  friend  of  hers: 
'How  is  your  cousin,  the  Duchess?'" 

Carrie  imitated  Ethel's  tone,  although  Ethel  was  just  behind 
her  on  the  stairs,  and  might  easily  have  heard. 

"You  may  answer  her.  I  shall  let  you  gratify  her  to  that 
extent.  Then  you  must  turn  round  and  talk  to  me  for  the  rest 
of  the  dinner.  I've  a  hundred  things  to  say  to  you." 

Derry  was  nothing  loth;  even  her  enemies  had  to  admit 
Carrie  was  good  company.  And  they  began  by  a  laugh  that 
established  their  friendship.  For,  surely  enough,  as  soon  as 
ever  they  were  all  settled  in  their  seats,  and  in  the  pause  that 
came  before  the  first  bottle  of  champagne  was  uncorked,  Ethel 
said  loudly: 

"And  how  is  your  cousin,  the  Duchess,  Lord  Ranmore?  I 
see  she  has  returned  from  Pau.  I  hope  she  enjoyed  the 
hunting  ..." 

Derry  answered  that  she  knew  more  about  his  cousin's 
movements  than  he  did.  He  threw  it  off  lightly.  He  was  not 
going  to  spoil  the  pleasure  that  was  before  him  by  dwelling  on 
the  thought  of  how  little  he  knew  of  Margaret's  movements. 
He  appreciated  Carrie's  imitation  of  Ethel.  Perhaps  it  was  a 
little  cruel,  perhaps  it  was  a  little  caricatured,  but  certainly  she 
hit  off  their  hostess  to  the  life,  and  was  not  deterred  from  con- 
tinuing her  mimicry  by  the  proximity  of  her  victim.  Afterward 
she  gave  Derry  a  rapid  description  of  the  other  guests,  with  a 
flash  of  illuminating  phrase  that  made  him  see  them  through 
her  eyes. 

270 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Next  to  Carrie,  on  the  other  side  to  Derry,  was  the  famous 
Irish  novelist,  Oscar  Paton.  He  had  been  red-haired  and 
flamboyant  in  his  youth,  with  eyes  of  china-blue,  and  fat,  small 
hands  with  which  he  gesticulated  and  talked.  The  red  hair 
had  turned  white,  but  the  eyes  had  retained  their  blue,  and  the 
speech  its  flamboyancy.  Oscar  Paton  was  the  only  literary 
man  in  an  illiterate  age.  He  told  this  to  everyone,  and  some  of 
them  believed  him.  Certainly  he  devoted  his  entire  life  to  his 
art,  living  in  Dublin,  and  only  coming  over  now  and  again  to 
visit  his  publishers.  With  his  waving  hands  he  deplored  that 
he  was  unable  to  read  modern  English.  He  didn't  understand 
it,  he  said.  He  extolled  the  French  novel,  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders  when  he  regretted  our  insular  lack  of  literature. 
Oscar  Paton  has  not  a  great  vogue.  The  press,  the  compact 
little  ring  that  controls  the  fiction  market,  always  treat  him  with 
indifference  for  even  a  journalist  resents  being  stigmatized  as 
illiterate.  In  a  pause  of  Carrie's  description  he  was  heard  to 
speak  of  a  leading  reviewer. 

"  I  deplore  his  undistinguished  fluency.  If  he  were  to  praise 
anything  I  did,  I  should  know  I  had  failed,  I  should  be  afraid 
he  had  begun  to  understand  me.  •  'She  threw  an  orange  at  him.' 
That  is  his  criterion  of  imaginative  fiction." 

And  he  went  on  to  speak  of  a  novel  he  had  not  read,  but  which 
had  gone  into  many  editions,  and  excited  his  jealousy.  The 
phrase  seemed  to  have  no  meaning,  but  he  repeated  it  several 
times.  "She  threw  an  orange  at  him." 

Oscar  Paton  had  a  distinct  personality.  But  for  his  over- 
weening vanity,  and  his  lack  of  classical  education,  he  might  have 
been  the  great  man  that  he  saw  himself.  As  a  novelist  he  failed, 
and  would  always  fail,  because  he  had  no  understanding  of 
normal  relations  between  men  and  women;  but  in  his  younger 
days  he  had  written  exquisite  verse,  and  a  play  that  ran  for  a 
week,  in  which  Mossy  had  detected  genius.  Mossy  and  he 
had  been  friends  ever  since  then.  Oscar  talked  to  him  for 
hours  whenever  he  was  in  London,  of  himself,  and  of  Judaism. 
Oscar  was  very  much  interested  in  Judaism;  he  found  it  a  pictur- 
esque survival. 

271 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

On  his  other  side  to-night  was  Mrs.  Maltravers,  the  famous 
courtesan,  a  woman  of  forty  but  still  beautiful;  a  Provencal  by 
birth,  owing  her  name  and  place  to  a  romantic  marriage. 

"You  know  something  of  these  Jews?"  he  asked  her;  "they 
are  the  romance  of  our  dull  age."  Everything  he  said  was  said 
for  effect,  as  Carrie  pointed  out  to  Derry  in  a  quick  undertone. 
But  there  was  often  a  wild  truth  caught  in  the  net  of  his  epigrams. 
Rosaleen  was  introduced  to  him  across  the  table,  and  he  asked 
at  once  if  she  had  read  The  Bay  of  Bantry. 

"It  was  the  only  serious  contribution  that  has  appeared  on 
this  side  of  the  Channel  to  the  literature  of  Catholicism  and  decay. 
The  French  were  the  first  to  discover  the  analogy,  but  it  was  I 
who  ..."  He  wanted  the  entire  table  as  audience,  but  when  he 
found  they  were  bad  listeners,  he  dropped  his  voice,  and  spoke 
into  the  ear  of  his  neighbor,  Mrs.  Maltravers.  He  was  full  of 
French  stories,  modern  conies  drolatiques,  and  he  had  an  absolute 
pride  in  his  want  of  delicacy  in  narrating  them.  It  was  many 
a  long  day  since  Rose  Maltravers  had  found  her  way  from  a 
French  circus  to  an  English  country  house,  and  Maltravers  had 
been  but  ill  rewarded  for  his  misplaced  chivalry.  For  a  time 
Mrs.  Maltravers  was  the  most-talked-of  woman  of  her  day,  the 
scandals  which  were  attached  to  her  name  began  in  a  palace, 
and  ended  in  a  stable-yard.  Perhaps  they  had  not  ended  yet. 
She  was  extraordinarily  stupid,  and  had  never  quite  mastered 
the  language  of  her  adopted  country,  but  her  amiability  was  as 
amazing  as  her  stupidity.  It  was  Mossy  who  had  engineered 
her  on  to  the  stage  when  her  fortunes  were  at  their  lowest  ebb. 
He  said  her  neck  and  shoulders,  combined  with  her  bad  reputa- 
tion, and  her  French  accent,  would  make  any  play.  She  was 
not  an  actress,  but  her  few  public  appearances  in  foreign  parts 
of  plays  written  for  her,  had  given  her  a  new  standing  in  the 
public  eye.  The  horses,  however,  that  had  been  her  first  love 
were  also  her  last.  She  had  racing  stables  now,  and  an  entire 
new  social  clientele.  At  forty  she  was  still  beautiful.  She  had 
no  scruple  in  laughing  at  Oscar  Paton's  coarse  stories,  delicacy 
being  no  part  of  her  social  equipment. 

Another  of  the  dinner  guests  was  Nat  Simons,  the  famous 

272 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

entrepreneur.  What  share  he  had  in  Mrs.  Maltravers'  racing 
stables  was  always  a  subject  of  debate  in  theatrical  circles.  A 
handsome  fellow  was  Nat  Simons,  with  the  head  of  a  Roman 
emperor.  His  eyes  were  sleepy  and  southern,  his  black  hair 
curled  low  on  his  forehead.  He  glanced  at  Rosaleen  from  under 
his  eyelids,  now  and  again,  as  if  wondering  how  she  would  look 
in  tights.  It  was  Nat's  appreciation  Mossy  wanted,  when  he 
had  taken  so  much  trouble  over  Rosaleen's  costume.  They 
were  solicitor  and  client,  but  they  were  also  boon  companions. 
Mossy  enjoyed  exhibiting  a  new  beauty  to  Nat  as  a  collector 
enjoys  a  rarity  when  showing  it  to  a  brother  collector,  who 
would  have  given  any  money  for  it.  Nat  was  very  sociable, 
an  agreeable  addition  to  any  dinner-party;  he  could  both  talk 
and  listen. 

Clarice  Vane  and  Lord  Windermere  completed  the  party. 
Their  liaison  was  one  of  the  tragedies  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
anti-divorce  laws.  At  twenty-four  Lord  Windermere  had  been 
persuaded  by  his  confessor  into  a  mariage  de  convenance  with  a 
young  convert  of  the  great  house  of  Eartham.  In  the  first 
eagerness  of  her  apostacy  the  marriage  with  Lord  Windermere 
appeared  as  a  fitting  corollary  to  her  induction.  But  within  a 
year  the  innate  fickleness  of  her  disposition  found  another 
objective.  Large  interests  were  involved,  and  a  scandal  had 
to  be  avoided  at  all  hazards.  \Vhen  Lord  Windermere  became 
convinced  that  it  was  impossible  to  get  a  dispensation  from 
Rome,  he  bowed  his  head  to  the  yoke,  as  children  of  his  church 
have  done  from  time  immemorable,  and  wore  his  fetters  uncom- 
plainingly. But  at  thirty-four,  neither  husband  nor  widower, 
he  fell  in  love  with  one  of  the  prettiest  and  most  virtuous  little 
women  that  ever  danced  and  sang  her  way  into  the  fickle  graces 
of  the  public.  He  had  two  children  by  her,  and  would  have 
made  her  his  wife  at  any  time,  had  he  been  able.  Their  lives 
together  were  models  of  domesticity.  He  was  a  dark  and 
saturnine,  melancholy  man,  she  was  light  of  foot  and  dainty; 
their  devotion  was  a  byword. 

Clarice  Vane  had  a  great  friendship  for  Mossy  Leon.  It 
was  Mossy  who  arranged  her  settlement,  and  persuaded  Lord 

273 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Windermere  to  let  her  remain  on  the  stage.  Mossy  urged  that, 
as  he  could  not  give  her  any  society  but  his  own,  and,  as  she 
had  been  the  great  favorite  of  the  public,  used  to  applause,  the 
"beat  of  populous  hands,"  it  would  be  unfair  to  deprive  her  of 
the  exercise  of  her  art.  She  would  make  him  no  worse  compan- 
ion for  going  on  with  her  life 's  work.  Through  Mossy 's  inter- 
vention, therefore,  Clarice  kept  her  place  on  the  boards.  The 
home  in  St.  John's  Wood  lost  nothing  because  its  mistress  led 
a  strenuous,  instead  of  an  idle,  life.  There  were  times  when 
Lord  Windermere  had  perforce  to  leave  her  for  days,  sometimes 
even  for  weeks  at  a  stretch;  he  had  the  duties  of  his  great  position. 
He,  too,  was  grateful  now  to  Mossy  for  having  pointed  out  that 
she  would  have  pined  and  fretted  at  her  isolation  without  the 
stage.  She  had  been  absolutely  faithful  to  him,  and  had  never 
had  another  lover.  Mossy  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  see  that 
Clarice  Vane  was  not  fit  to  meet  Rosaleen,  or  his  own  wife,  or 
any  lady  in  the  land. 

Carrie,  telling  the  story  in  her  own  way  to  Derry,  rather 
jeered  at  Mossy 's  point  of  view.  She  had  known  Gerald 
Windermere  all  her  life,  she  said,  but  he  would  never  have 
dreamed  of  introducing  her  to  Clarice  Vane.  Lady  Carrie  was 
under  many  obligations  to  Mossy,  and  was  enjoying  his  hos- 
pitality, but  that  did  not  deter  her  from  jeering  at  his  lack  of 
shibboleths.  Derry  looked  at  Clarice  with  sympathy  and 
interest,  and  perhaps  that  influenced  Carrie  when  she  spoke 
of  the  "impossible"  things  Mossy  did,  such  as  inviting  Clarice 
to  dinner.  Clarice  Vane,  off  the  stage,  was  a  sweet-faced, 
gentle  little  woman.  Whatever  her  status  in  society,  Carrie 
Carthew  would  have  been  unable  to  understand  or  appreciate 
her.  The  form  of  her  union  with  Lord  Windermere  may  have 
been  irregular,  but  in  all  essentials  she  was  a"  sweet  and  tender 
wife  and  mother,  and  a  loyal  comrade.  All  the  dramatic 
charities  could  have  told  tales  of  her  unstinting  generosity; 
many  a  poor  sister-professional,  fallen  on  evil  days,  had  cause 
to  bless  the  day  she  heard  her  name.  She  had  a  wonderful 
charity  of  thought  and  action.  The  State  might  not  recognize 
her  position,  and  such  women  as  Carrie  Carthew  and  Ethel 

274 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Leon  might  treat  her  with  contempt  or  condescension;  but  if 
any  morality,  other  than  conventional,  be  accepted  in  a  higher 
place,  there  would  be  no  condescension  in  the  judgment  meted 
out  to  Clarice  Vane. 

The  dinner  passed  all  too  quickly.  It  is  possible  both  Clarice 
Vane  and  Rosaleen  dreaded  that  inevitable  twenty  minutes  in 
the  drawing-room.  Lady  Carrie  had  an  habitual  distaste  for 
the  society  of  women;  particularly,  as  she  said  lightly  to  Derry 
when  she  followed  Ethel's  signal,  "spotted  ones."  He  took 
the  allusion  slowly;  it  was  difficult  to  think  she  could  class 
Mrs.  Maltravers  with  Clarice  Vane. 

But,  once  in  the  drawing-room,  Mrs.  Maltravers  presented 
no  social  difficulty.  "It  is  going  to  be  one  long  evening,  I  sink," 
she  said  to  Ethel,  smiling  sweetly;  "and  if  you  will  excuse  me, 
I  go  upstairs,  and  take  ten  minutes'  sleep,  I  sink  there  is  a  big 
sofa  in  your  bedroom.  You  vill  tell  your  maid  to  call  me  at 
half-past  ten,  vill  you  not?" 

Rosaleen  knew  her  moment  had  come.  She  met,  as  well  as 
she  was  able,  Lady  Carrie's  light,  inquisitive  eyes.  They  were 
vaguely  curious,  perhaps  still  more  vaguely  satirical. 

"So  you  are  Berry's  wife,"  she  began.  "He  ought  to  have 
brought  you  to  see  me  before  this,  I've  just  been  telling  him 
so." 

"It's  so  short  a  time  that  we've  been  in  London,"  Rosaleen 
faltered. 

"Yes,  I  know.  Still,  he  found  time  to  come  himself."  The 
sudden  flush  amused  Carrie.  "Did  he  not  tell  you  he  had 
called?  I'm  sorry  I  was  out,  he  ought  to  have  let  me  know 
he  was  coming  ..."  then,  because  she  could  read  the  other 
like  an  open  book,  and  found  herself  all  at  once  quite  amused, 
and  in  her  element,  she  added,  mischievously,  "like  he  used 
to  do." 

Lady  Carrie  understood  jealousy  when  she  met  it;  it  was 
no  new  thing  for  her.  To  find  it  in  Derry  Ranmore's  peasant- 
wife  was  exhilarating. 

Derry 's  wife  did  not  look  like  a  peasant,  although,  somehow 
or  other,  Carrie's  supercilious  and  patronizing  smile  and 

275 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

manner,  and  amused,  critical  eyes,  made  Rosaleen  hold  herself 
less  erect.  It  was  always  her  own  past  that  humiliated  and 
flushed  her  cheek  irregularly. 

Carrie  subsided  gracefully  into  a  low  easy-chair,  and  indi- 
cated that  Rosaleen  should  sit,  too. 

"You  are  so  tall,  too  tall  for  a  woman.  Deny  used  to  like 
little  women.  Don't  stand  as  if  you  were  triumphing  in  being 
so  much  above  me." 

Rosaleen 's  flush  deepened. 

"You  had  not  known  Deny  very  long  before  you  married 
him,  had  you?  I  don't  think  he  had  met  you  at  all  when  I  first 
knew  him.  He  never  spoke  of  you  to  me."  She  smiled  just 
as  maliciously  as  she  had  spoken.  "He  was  only  a  boy.  I've 
often  told  him  what  a  boy  he  was;  too  young  to  be  making 
love  to  me." 

"It  isn't  a  boy  Deny  has  ever  seemed  to  me,"  the  poor  girl 
said  slowly;  she  was  in  a  bewilderment  of  feeling.  It  was 
surely  impossible  that  Derry  had  ever  cared  for  this  plain  little 
body.  Yet  the  plain  little  body  had  the  power  to  hurt.  Lady 
Carrie  knew  her  capacity,  and  it  was  easy  to  see  the  other's 
defenselessness;  even  this  preliminary  skirmish  made  it  clear. 
And  Derry  had  grown  into  a  fine  man;  he  was  worth  fighting 
for. 

"Don't  scold  him  for  having  been  to  see  me,  there's  a  dear 
woman,  I  like  him  to  come,  and  he  likes  to  come:"  This 
evening  was  the  first  time  Carrie  had  seen  Deny  since  his 
return  from  Siam,  but  Rosaleen  was  confused,  and  failed  to 
realize  it.  "You  have  so  much  of  his  society,"  Carrie  said, 
with  a  droop  of  her  lip,  but  a  quick  glance  of  her  eye  to  see 
how  her  plea  was  received;  "don't  grudge  me  an  occasional 
hour." 

"I'd  not  be  interfering  with  anything  Derry  wants  to  do," 
Rosaleen  answered,  not  without  her  defense  of  pride.  For 
now  she  had  her  armor  on,  that  armor  of  instinctive  reticence. 

"How  sweet  of  you!"  Carrie  ejaculated.  Who  could  say 
if  she  meant  it  ironically,  if  she  thought  Derry  would  go  and  see 
her  anyhow,  whether  his  wife  wished  it  or  not  ?  They  exchanged 

276 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

a  few  more  sentences.  Carrie  was  a  little  vexed  at  getting  no 
further  "rise"  out  of  her  victim.  The  flush  had  been  succeeded 
by  pallor,  but  Rosaleen's  voice  was  steady,  and  what  little  she 
answered  to  the  other's  veiled  gibes,  or  questions,  showed 
nothing  of  her  mind.  In  truth  Carrie  found  Rosaleen  some- 
what baffling.  She  was  perfectly  gowned,  for  one  thing,  and 
no  one  could  deny  her  beauty.  But  she  had  taken  the  liberty 
of  baffling  Lady  Carrie,  and  Lady  Carrie's  duty  was  clear. 

Deny  was  the  first  of  the  men  to  come  upstairs. 

Carrie  said  to  him  coolly:  "Now,  don't  forget  I  expect  you 
to  devote  yourself  entirely  to  me  this  evening.  We're  both  of 
us  out  of  our  element."  Glancing  at  Rosaleen,  she  added: 
"I  suppose  your  wife  knows  we  are  by  way  of  being  distant 
cousins,  the  Ranmores  and  I?" 

Rosaleen  understood,  if  Derry  missed  the  implication,  that 
here,  among  these  theatrical  and  Bohemian  people,  she  might 
be  in  her  element,  but  Derry,  and  his  "distant  cousin,"  were 
out  of  theirs. 

"We'll  look  on  at  Bohemia  from  a  convenient  distance. 
There  is  a  sort  of  conservatory  arrangement  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  isn't  there?  I  think  I  see  it,  or  is  it  only  palms  ?  Now, 
bring  me  this  low  chair,  and  another  comfortable  one  for  your- 
self, a  cushion  and  a  footstool,  and  I'll  play  showman  to  you." 

"And  it's  the  showman  will  be  the  best  performer  of  them 
all  I've  no  doubt,"  he  answered  gallantly. 

Carrie,  with  a  little  parting  smile,  went  off  with  Derry  just 
as  Mossy  made  his  way  toward  Rosaleen.  Derry  looked  both 
expectant  and  merry  as  he  went  off,  carrying  Lady  Carrie's 
low  chair,  listening  to  her  and  talking.  Surely,  Rosaleen 
thought,  she  had  not  been  so  unhappy  that  last  evening  she 
dined  here,  and  ran  away  before  the  men  joined  them  in  the 
drawing-room.  There  was  no  opportunity  of  running  away 
now,  Mossy  was  by  her  side,  full  of  his  intention  to  give  her  a 
pleasant  evening. 

"I've  got  the  Paulyn  Brothers  coming,  and  Dan  Stern. 
They  have  neither  of  them  ever  performed  in  a  private  house 
before.  Stern  has  only  been  in  England  four  days,  and  his  con- 

277 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

tract  with  the  Palace  is  an  exclusive  one.  Oh!  don't  bother 
about  Deny!"  for  he  followed  the  direction  of  her  eyes;  "Carrie 
has  walked  off  with  Derry;  it's  a  way  she  has.  She'll  keep 
him  amused.  Did  you  ever  see  Dan  Merino  do  his  'Bill  Sykes 
at  the  Pet  Dog-show?'  I  told  you  I'd  secured  him,  didn't  I?" 

Mossy  constituted  himself  her  body  guard.  He  did  not  ne- 
glect his  other  guests,  but  he  never  left  her  alone  for  long.  He 
was  so  obviously  anxious  she  should  enjoy  herself,  that  she 
had  to  smile  at  him,  and  tell  him  everything  was  delightful. 
While  all  the  time  she  was  carrying  her  heart  like  a  stone  in 
her  breast,  and  the  cold  of  it  was  all  through  her. 

But  it  was  really  a  delightful  evening.  There  were  many 
ladies,  from  the  first  rank  only,  of  the  musical-comedy  stage, 
and  there  was  not  merely  our  only  light-comedy  actress,  but  also 
our  only  tragedienne.  Julie  Stormont  was  easily  the  best-dressed 
woman  in  the  room,  notwithstanding  the  trouble  that  had  been 
taken  over  Rosaleen's  get-up;  but  Julie  had  a  gift,  an  instinct 
for  clothes,  also  a  superb  figure,  and  a  jewel  casket  wherein 
taste  met  splendor.  To-night  she  wore  green — that  very  green 
that  had  been  denied  to  Rosaleen;  but  then,  it  matched  Julie's 
eyes,  and  her  wonderful  chain  of  uncut  emeralds.  And  her 
hair,  for  the  moment,  was  red,  or  brown  with  a  shading  of  red ; 
she  wore  it  high,  piled  against  her  quaint  Empire  comb  of 
emeralds.  Her  manners  were  as  fine  as  her  figure.  Perhaps 
there  was  a  shade  too  much  of  them,  she  was  a  little  too  invariably 
amiable,  a  little  too  empressee,  and  delighted  to  meet  everybody ; 
but  that  counted  for,  and  not  against  her,  in  this  circle.  She 
had  French  methods  and  modes  of  expression,  she  moved  with 
a  slow,  undulating  grace,  and  she  moved  a  good  deal,  here,  there 
and  everywhere,  distributing  words  and  smiles.  Carrie  told 
Derry  she  had  to  walk  about  because  she  was  laced  too  tightly 
to  sit  down! 

Mrs.  Brian  O'Hagan  was  in  black  velvet,  a  crumpled-looking 
garment  that  had  a  second-hand  effect;  a  fichu,  which  had  once 
been  white,  was  adjusted,  as  if  hurriedly,  about  her  shoulders, 
the  corner  of  it  missing  the  middle  of  her  back,  and  the  rest 
meandering  at  will,  obviously  covering  hooks  that  were  absent 

278 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

and  an  essential  shabbiness.  She  wore  a  great  cinquo  cento 
crucifix,  suspended  from  a  string  of  amber  beads:  this  was  her 
only  jewelry.  The  tragic  eyes  were  set  in  a  sallow  complexion, 
and,  amid  the  chatter  and  light  laughter  that  so  soon  filled  the 
room,  the  beautiful  cadences  of  her  voice  struck  an  incongruous 
note.  Mrs.  Brian,  as  they  all  called  her,  came  in  very  late,  and 
she  appeared  a  little  dazed,  as  if  she  had  been  sleeping.  Carrie 
told  Deny  she  was  supposed  to  be  addicted  to  morphia,  but  to 
a  more  observant  eye,  it  only  showed  her  as  a  mystic,  or 
visionary. 

When  the  rooms  were  quite  full,  there  were  certainly  a  hundred 
or  more  guests,  hardly  half  a  dozen  of  them  with  names  unfa- 
miliar to  the  public. 

To  entertain  the  artists  of  the  musical-comedy  and  regular 
stage,  Mossy  had  got  together  all  the  talent  from  the  "halls." 
Presently,  on  the  platform  where  the  grand  piano  stood,  one  or 
another  took  his  place,  to  speak  a  speech,  or  sing  a  song,  or 
show  his  quality.  This  was*  an  audience  of  artists,  and  the 
spirit  of  it  grew.  Champagne  was  brought  into  the  drawing- 
room,  and  flowed  freely.  Smoking  was,  of  course,  allowed,  and 
amid  the  fumes  one  heard  the  excited  laughter,  and  applause. 
The  last  play  in  which  Julie  Stormont  had  appeared  ran  for 
three  hundred  nights.  She  had  no  opportunity  of  going  to  the 
Oxford,  and  hearing  the  incomparable  Dan  Stern  sing  "It  was 
half-past  nothing  on  a  snowy  summer's  night,"  or,  dressed  as 
Joan  of  Arc,  telling  the  story  of  the  famous  pearl  necklace.  She 
shrieked  with  laughter  at  Dan's  presentation  of  Joan  on  her 
white  horse,  mounted  for  the  first  time,  haranguing  the  troops, 
as  it  caracoled  and  more  than  once  nearly  threw  her.  All  his 
properties  were  a  handkerchief,  which  he  made  into  a  helmet, 
and  a  stick  that  he  borrowed  from  Mossy  and  bestrode  in  great 
style.  He  was  Marie  Antoinette  one  moment,  and  Joan  of 
Arc  the  next,  with  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  as  a  "runner  up." 

The  Paulyn  Brothers  were  American.  One  told  a  good 
story,  the  other  capped  and  contradicted.  They  were  so  quick, 
and  the  stories  so  good,  that  a  ripple  of  laughter  began  almost 
at  the  first  few  words,  and  was  kept  up  all  the  time.  Their 

279 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

patter  was  full  of  colloquialisms,  and  strange,  racy,  transatlantic 
phrases,  but  this  only  added  to  its  charm.  What  one  could 
understand  was  so  humorous  that  the  rest  was  accepted  as  being 
even  more  so. 

That  brilliant  protean  artist,  Mr.  Sebastian  Links,  aided  by 
his  incomparable  wife,  did  a  rapid  revue  as  it  would  appear  on 
a  cinematograph  worked  by  an  amateur  in  a  manner  that  brought 
down  the  house.  The  broken  fitful  dancing,  the  scraps  of  song 
that  were  supposed  to  issue  from  a  gramaphone,  the  spontaneity 
and  genius  of  the  little  tour  deforce,  met  with  generous  appreciation. 

From  start  to  finish  the  entertainment  went  with  a  bang. 
Long  before  supper-time  the  artistes  were  tumbling  over  each 
other  in  their  anxiety  to  "do  a  turn."  Those  who  would  have 
needed  an  hour's  pressing  before  they  would  have  sung  for 
anyone  else,  or  in  any  other  private  house,  were  volunteering  on 
all  sides.  For,  if  Julie  Stormont  had  never  heard  Dan,  nor  the 
Paulyn  Brothers,  they,  in  turn,  had  never  heard  her.  Julie 
recited,  Clarice  gave  "A  Columbine  once  met  a  Clown  at  a  fair," 
and  thoroughly  enjoyed  hearing  for  the  first  time,  Eric  Coombes' 
imitation  of  it.  Clarice  had  been  singing  the  Columbine  song 
for  half  a  dozen  years,  but  she  had  never  before  had  an  opportu- 
nity of  hearing  Eric  in  it.  He  was  apologetic,  and  not  quite  up 
to  his  best  form  in  the  commencement,  but  she  encouraged  him, 
and  soon  he  was  doing  himself  and  the  song  full  justice,  dropping 
his  voice,  and  his  curtsey,  making  his  expressive  gestures — 
just  that  mixture  of  buffoonery  and  caricature  for  which  he  was 
famous. 

"I  believe  I  made  the  success  of  that  song,"  he  boasted  to 
Clarice,  defiantly,  after  his  third  tumbler  of  champagne.  The 
champagne  was  served  round  in  tumblers,  and  Eric's  defiant 
manner  was  the  natural  sequel  to  his  nervousness;  "They  like 
the  parody  quite  as  much  as  the  original." 

"I  am  sure  they  do,"  Clarice  answered  him,  soothingly.  "I 
would  much  rather  hear  you  than  sing  it  myself.  Can't  you 
do  anything  with  the  new  one,  'Pretty  Fanny  Moody  met  a 
Melancholy  Man?'  " 

He  caught  at  the  suggestion,  quite  a  promising  friendship 

280 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

was  struck  up  between  them,  and  if  he  had  not  drunk  a  little 
too  freely  of  Mossy's  champagne,  and  grown  a  trifle  uproarious 
later  in  the  evening,  she  might  have  invited  him  to  that  house 
in  St.  John's  Wood. 

Few  people  wanted,  perhaps,  to  hear  Mrs.  Brian  recite  "The 
Death  of  the  Firefly"  from  the  new  Japanese  play  at  the  Parthe- 
non, but  it  was  wonderful  for  her  to  volunteer  it. 

Rosaleen  liked  this  item  better  than  any  other  part  of  the 
programme.  She  had  tried  to  respond  to  Mossy's  kindness, 
but  the  sight  of  those  two  figures  at  the  end  of  the  room,  sitting 
together,  laughing,  and  talking,  so  full  of  gay  intimacy,  paralyzed 
her  faculty  of  enjoyment. 

All  at  once,  as  that  beautiful  cadenced  voice  rose  and  fell, 
she  was  back  in  Siam,  on  that  evening  when  Brother  Ben  Whip- 
pell  had  told  in  Siamese  the  Story  of  the  Crucifixion  to  the 
moving  pictures  from  the  lantern.  She  fell  to  dreaming,  and 
now  there  was  the  long  drive  home,  with  Berry's  hand  clasped 
in  hers,  under  the  wonderful  moonlight.  She  saw  it  all  so  vividly. 
On  every  side,  from  pine  tree  and  alder,  the  fireflies  danced 
and  played  in  the  silvered  darkness,  darting  here  and  there  .  .  . 
She  had  to  brush  her  hand  against  her  eyes  to  see  that  she  was 
here,  in  Mossy  Leon's  brilliantly  lighted,  crowded  drawing-room 
and  Deny  was  still  seated  in  the  corner  there,  under  the  palm, 
holding  Lady  Carrie's  fan,  listening  and  laughing  while  she 
talked. 

At  twelve  o'clock  supper  was  announced.  A  hundred  people 
crushed  at  once  into  the  dining-room,  overwhelming  imported 
butlers,  and  incompetent  footmen;  and  they  ate  as  if  they  had 
never  eaten  before,  and  drank  wine  as  if  it  were  water.  The 
clash  and  clatter  of  plates,  and  knives,  and  glasses,  dominated 
the  supper-table  at  first.  But  very  soon  the  men  were  getting 
on  their  feet,  and  toasting  their  host,  singing  "For  he's  a  jolly 
good  fellow,"  and  later  on,  for  no  reason  at  all,  "Auld  Lang 
Syne"  and  "Yankee  Doodle."  Glasses  were  clinked  and 
broken;  healths  were  drunk,  and  new  friendships,  and  old 
admirations,  proclaimed  and  insisted  upon.  The  turmoil  ebbed 
and  flowed,  and,  but  for  Mossy,  would  have  flooded  decorum. 

281 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

But  Mossy  knew  when  the  current  needed  diverting,  and  he 
would  shift  a  seat,  or  turn  a  discussion,  or  head  an  argument 
without  any  apparent  effort.  He  liked  to  see  the  champagne 
flowing,  and  his  fine  cigars  being  consumed.  He  was  for  ever 
pressing  both,  and  directing  the  servants.  His  hospitable  in- 
stincts were  racial  and  generous.  Nobody  could  eat,  or  drink, 
or  smoke,  or  talk,  enough  to  please  him. 

Lady  Carrie  disappeared  early.  Derry  remained  and  helped 
the  toasts,  and  the  choruses.  He  drank,  perhaps,  a  little  more 
than  was  good  for  him. 

At  four  in  the  morning,  crawling  homeward  in  the  four- 
wheeled  cab  that  smelled  of  straw  and  damp,  he  said  it  had 
been  a  glorious  evening,  and  he  did  not  know  when  he'd  enjoyed 
himself  so  much.  He  put  his  arms  round  Rosaleen,  who  held 
herself  upright,  and  a  little  aloof.  He  told  her  she  had  looked 
ripping,  the  handsomest  woman  in  the  room,  and  that  he  had 
been  proud  of  her.  If  she  relaxed  a  little,  looking  at  him 
wistfully,  taking  hope,  his  next  sentence  was  like  a  dash  of 
ice-water  in  her  face,  and  she  stiffened  her  back. 

"She's  wonderful  company,  is  Lady  Carrie;  it's  better  than 
being  at  a  play  to  hear  her  talk.  She's  taking  me  down  to 
Hurlingham  next  week,  to  see  the  polo." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

MORNING   brought  Deny   a  parched  mouth  and  a 
heavy  head.     He  breakfasted  late,  but  while  he  was 
struggling  with  his  bacon  and  kidneys  he  said  he  must 
be  out  early. 

"Another  cup  of  coffee,  if  you  please,  darling.  These  late 
nights  don't  agree  with  me.  And  how  about  yourself?  No 
roses  this  morning!  Like  a  ha'porth  of  soap  after  a  hard  day's 
washing  you're  looking;  it's  a  stay-at-home  couple  we  are.  I 
must  go  out  directly  I've  swallowed  me  breakfast,  but  I'll  be 
back  and  take  you  for  a  drive  this  afternoon,  if  you  like." 

Rosaleen  had  not  slept  at  all.  How  could  she  sleep  when 
her  heart  lay  cold  as  a  stone  in  her  body,  and  all  the  time  she 
was  feeling  the  weight  of  it  ?  It  was  Lady  Carrie  was  the  good 
talker,  and  the  good  companion  to  him.  He  had  said  he  did 
not  want  to  talk  to  her  about  Lady  Carrie;  he  had  said  it  more 
than  once,  and  not  only  to  her,  but  to  Mossy.  How  could  she 
help  wondering  why,  and  never  hitting  upon  the  clue?  She 
did  not  underrate  Carrie's  attractions  as  a  smaller  woman 
would  have  done.  Carrie  was  subtle,  purring,  with  a  fluffy 
appeal.  It  was  not  wonderful  if  she  should  care  for  Derry. 
Rosaleen  would  not  have  thought  it  wonderful  if  every  woman 
cared  for  Derry;  but  it  made  her  heart  ache  to  think  that  Lady 
Carrie  and  Derry  had  an  intimacy  from  which  she  was  shut  out. 
It  wasn't  a  jealous  wife  she  would  be  making  him;  but  if  it  had 
been  only  out  of  pity  he  had  married  her,  and  it  was  in  the  way 
of  his  happiness  she  was  standing  .  .  .  Why,  the  endless 
night  itself  wasn't  long  enough  for  the  vista  of  empty  years  and 
dreariness  that  stretched  before  her.  She,  in  the  way  of  Derry's 
happiness!  How  gay  he  had  been  with  that  woman  last  night, 
he  had  not  been  so  gay  since  they  reached  London,  and  this 
morning  over  breakfast  he  ...  yawned. 

283 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

He  went  out  after  breakfast,  and  after  luncheon,  too,  not 
without  asking  her  if  she  cared  for  a  drive,  but  relieved,  she 
thought,  when  she  said  no.  It  was  nearly  six  o'clock  before  he 
came  home  again.  He  said  he  had  had  tea,  and  he  yawned 
again.  He  thought  he'd  have  a  nap  in  the  drawing-room.  .  .  . 
She  sat  in  the  dining-room  not  to  disturb  him.  She  guessed 
where  he  had  been,  although  he  had  fallen  to  sleep  without 
telling  her. 

It  was  quite  a  sad  face  Mossy  discovered  when  he  came  in  to 
talk  over  the  party,  to  hear  from  her,  as  he  had  heard  on  all  sides 
to-day,  what  a  success  it  had  been,  and  how  unique.  She  saw 
him  coming,  and  let  him  in  herself;  Deny  mustn't  be  disturbed. 
She  led  Mossy  into  the  dining-room,  her  finger  on  her  lip,  and 
it  was  then  he  saw  that  her  face  was  sad. 

"Well!  wasn't  it  a  good  party?  There's  not  another  man  in 
London  could  have  brought  such  a  crowd  together.  No  money 
could  have  bought  such  a  show."  Then  he  broke  off,  because 
he'd  seen  her  face.  "What's  the  matter?  You  look  as  if 
you'd  lost  a  diamond  tiara,  and  found  a  hair-net  of  the  wrong 
color  with  a  big  hole  in  it!  But,  seriously  now,  anything  wrong  ? 
How's  the  boy?" 

"It's  grand  he  is;  there's  nothing  the  matter.  I'm  tired, 
that's  all.  Speak  low,  Deny  is  asleep  on  the  sofa  behind  the 
folding  doors." 

Mossy  persisted: 

"I  expected  you  to  be  looking  no  end  gay,  you  were  the  success 
of  the  evening  last  night.  You  should  have  heard  what  Nat 
Simons  said  about  you!  You  could  "walk  on"  to-morrow,  if 
you  like,  and  I  would  guarantee  you  a  speaking  part  in  a  month." 

Assured  that  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with  her  but  over- 
fatigue,  Mossy  became  fuller  than  ever  of  theatrical  gossip. 
They  moved  into  the  bay  of  the  window,  in  order  not  to  wake 
Deny,  and  he  told  Rosaleen  what  everybody  had  said  about 
his  party;  he  had  lunched  at  Romano's,  and  found  that  no  one 
was  talking  of  anything  else.  He  wanted  to  know  what  item 
of  the  entertainment  she  had  enjoyed  most.  Talking,  not 
listening,  was  Mossy 's  idea  of  conversation;  whatever  he  asked 

284 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

her,  he  never  waited  for  the  answer.     That  was  his  weakness, 
but  it  was  one  that  suited  Rosaleen  very  well. 

Suddenly  it  struck  her  that  she  could  ask  Mossy,  more  easily 
than  Deny,  about  Lady  Carrie.  Had  Deny  ever  cared  about 
her?  What  had  they  been  to  each  other?  Her  own  marriage 
to  him  was  so  wrapped  hi  pain  and  darkness,  she  could  not 
bear  to  look  back,  yet  she  was  being  forced  to  look  back.  She 
had  never  known  for  certain  why  it  was  he  had  not  spoken  that 
golden  summer  at  Ranmore,  before  Terence  came,  and  shadowed 
not  only  all  her  summer,  but  all  her  life?  She  felt  now  that  it 
was  in  shadow  and  humility  her  life  should  have  been  lived. 
She  had  thought  that  it  was  his  poverty  had  kept  Deny  silent, 
and  because  they  were  both  young.  Now  she  believed  that  it 
was  because  here,  up  in  London,  he  had  already  seen  someone 
he  liked  better.  All  her  reasoning  powers  were  obscured  by 
her  pain. 

She  did  not  have  to  press  Mossy  for  information;  his  indiscre- 
tions were  part  of  his  companionability.  He  had  not  the  gift 
of  keeping  secrets,  his  own  or  anybody  else's,  except  from  Ethel, 
for  whom  he  had  that  curiously  inconsistent  respect. 

"And  what  did  you  think  of  Lady  Carrie — Carrie  Carthew? 
I  didn't  think  she  looked  her  best  last  night.  She  will  wear  that 
eau  de  nil  shade,  because  years  ago  some  artist  fellow  told  her 
her  hair  was  the  color  of  primroses,  and  she  must  dress  up  to  it; 
'the  sheath  and  the  flower' — you  know  the  sort  of  thing.  But 
really  there  is  hardly  any  yellow  at  all  in  her  hair,  it  is  just 
ashen;  he  had  much  better  have  made  her  wear  brown,  and 
appear  as  a  good  Havana  cigar.  But  to  see  Carrie  at  her 
best  you  must  see  her  in  a  tea-gown,  in  her  own  place,  of  an 
afternoon.  ..." 

More  than  half  in  earnest,  for  he  liked  Rosaleen,  and  hated 
to  see  her  look  sad,  he  went  on: 

"By  the  way,  I  shouldn't  encourage  Deny  to  sprawl  his  long 
length  too  many  afternoons  hi  that  pretty  drawing-room  of 
hers.  I  meant  to  tell  you  that  before.  She  is  a  clever  little 
monkey,  full  of  tricks.  You  have  to  get  up  early  to  get  the  best 
of  her." 

19  285 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

And  yet  he  did  not  seriously  fear  Lady  Carrie's  seductions 
for  Derry.  After  seeing  Rosaleen  as  he  had  seen  her  last  night, 
after  contrasting  one  woman  with  the  other,  it  was  ridiculous 
to  think  Derry  was  in  love  with  Lady  Carrie.  Derry  was  in 
love  with  his  own  wife;  even  Mossy  knew  that  now;  really  it 
was  shouted  on  the  housetops,  Rosaleen  alone  did  not  hear  it 
plainly.  Her  love  for  him  was  so  loud  and  insistent  that  she 
heard  nothing  else. 

But  Carrie  had  admitted  some  time  ago  to  Mossy  that  she 
had  a  hold,  the  effect  of  which  would  be  felt  in  Derry's  pocket. 
Mossy  did  not  want  to  give  away  any  of  Carrie's  secrets,  they 
were  old  allies,  and  he  liked  Carrie.  Liking  many  women  was 
one  of  Mossy's  specialties.  But  Derry  had  been  waiting  for 
him  when  he  came  to  the  office  that  morning,  in  urgent  need 
of  money;  it  could  hardly  be  for  his  own  requirements.  He 
had  had  eight  hundred  pounds  hardly  a  fortnight  ago.  Rosaleen 
was  a  pefectly  wonderful  manager  and  needlewoman.  Derry 
was  never  tired  of  telling  of  her  prowess.  She  made  all  the 
boy's  clothes,  her  own,  too,  except  last  night  s  wonder.  The 
housekeeping  in  the  flat  was  on  an  economical  scale,  just  a 
couple  of  maids  and  the  boy's  nurse.  Why  should  Derry  want 
another  £500  at  once  ? 

Mossy  was  never  a  business  man,  notwithstanding  that  he 
was  a  financier  by  profession,  a  Semite,  and  a  solicitor.  He 
had  gone  to  the  length  of  pointing  out  to  Derry  that  money 
borrowed  at  80  or  100  per  cent,  was  dear,  if  it  was  to  give  to  a 
woman  he  no  longer  cared  about.  Even  Mossy  thought  that 
Derry  must  once  have  cared  for  Carrie.  Derry  had  practically 
told  Mossy  to  mind  his  own  business,  get  him  the  money  and 
not  ask  questions.  Mossy  had  no  thought  of  making  mischief 
when  he  gave  Rosaleen  a  hint  that  Carrie  might  get  Derry  into 
a  mess. 

"You  see,  they  are  old  friends,"  he  said,  "and  Carrie  has  a 
way  of  depending  upon  her  old  friends.  You  take  my  meaning  ?" 

"I'm  not  sure." 

Rosaleen 's  heart  was  beating  faster  than  ever,  and  louder 
surely,  she  did  not  want  Mossy  to  hear  it,  nor  to  think  that  she 

286 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

was  prying  upon  Berry's  affairs.  "It's  Deny  and  she  were 
old  friends,  you're  telling  me,  before  we  were  married.  But 
why  shouldn't  he  go  and  see  her  then?  It's  dull  for  him  here, 
I'm  thinking." 

"Oh!  well,  just  as  you  like.  There  is  no  reason  he  should 
not  go  and  see  her;  but  he'd  better  leave  his  cheque  book  at 
home.  That's  all  I  meant;  she's  a  little  intriguer,  a  bit  hot, 
and  going  the  pace  all  the  time,  on  a  small  income.  Don't 
say  I  didn't  warn  you,  that's  all.  Deny  is  such  a  good-hearted 
chap;  a  woman  like  Carrie  can  twist  him  round  her  little  finger. 
What  did  you  think  of  Julie  Stormont's  'get  up'?  They  talk 
about  Frenchwomen!  There  isn't  a  French- woman  I've  ever 
seen  who  is  fit  to  hold  a  candle  to  her.  And  she  never  makes 
a  mistake,  Lady  Ranmore,  she  never  makes  a  mistake." 

Now  he  was  talking  about  something  he  really  understood, 
and  his  manner  was  distinctly  earnest.  "She  has  got  the  finest 
selection  of  jewels  of  any  woman  on  the  stage,  and  she  only 
wears  exactly  enough — never  a  brooch  in  the  wrong  place,  or 
a  ring  too  many.  Did  you  notice  her  emeralds?  They  must 
have  cost  a  fortune.  The  next  time  you  see  her  she  may  be 
in  white  satin,  with  diamonds  set  d  jour,  French  setting,  mind 
you,  that  makes  them  look  like  lace.  She  has  a  set  of  peacocks, 
in  diamonds  and  emeralds  and  sapphires,  that  would  make 
your  mouth  water,  and  a  parure  of  rubies — pigeon's  blood — 
not  a  flaw  in  any  of  them — that  she  wears  with  a  rose-pin 
brocade.  Some  people  call  her  plain.  As  if  a  woman  could  be 
plain  with  a  figure  like  that,  and  the  knowledge  how  to  dress  it!" 

"Is  she  very  rich?" 

Mossy  laughed.  He  liked  instructing  Rosaleen's  ignorance, 
here  in  the  intimate  dusk  of  the  closing  day,  although  he  was 
no  longer  actually  in  love  with  her.  That  Deny  was  sleeping 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room  did  not  prevent  it  being  a  tete-a-tete. 

"She  hasn't  got  a  bob.  She  draws  two  hundred  pounds  a 
week,  and  spends  four  hundred." 

"Then  how  does  she  get  her  wonderful  jewelry?" 

Rosaleen  had  only  a  perfunctory  interest  in  the  matter,  but 
she  was  glad  Mossy  was  no  longer  talking  about  Lady  Carrie 

287 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

and  Berry.  She  had  wanted  him  to  at  first,  but  it  had  been 
almost  like  the  cessation  of  physical  pain  when  he  turned  to 
another  subject.  She  had  wished  to  know  all  there  was  to 
be  known  of  Berry's  intimacy  with  Lady  Carrie;  then  she  had 
found  the  subject,  and  Mossy 's  treatment  of  it,  unbearable. 
For  Julie  Stormont  she  cared  nothing. 

"She  gets  her  jewelry  the  same  way  other  pretty  women  do," 
he  answered,  and  proceeded  to  dilate  upon  the  theme. 

"How  many  diamonds  do  you  think  you  could  have  if  you'd 
so  much  as  look  at  any  man  but  your  big  Berry  ?" 

She  raised  unseeing  eyes  to  his  face.  Had  Berry  ever  given 
jewelry  to  Lady  Carrie? 

"You  know  that  line  in  The  Boys  from  Barton,  'I  do  believe 
in  platonic  love,  but  I'm  a  skeptic  about  platonic  jewelry'? 
Well,  Julie  Stormont 's  casket  of  jewelry  isn't  supposed  to  be 
platonic.  I  can't  say  if  it's  true,  I've  never  given  her  anything 
myself.  She  is  a  connoisseur,  I  couldn't  afford  it,  if  I  wanted 
to.  We've  been  speaking  about  Lady  Carrie,  her  income  is 
about  eight  hundred  pounds  a  year,  and  she  rents  a  hunting- 
box  at  Melton,  as  well  as  the  house  in  Charles  Street.  How 
do  you  think  it's  done?" 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Berry  sat  up  and  yawned,  so  loudly 
that  they  could  have  heard  it  if  the  folding-doors  had  been 
closed. 

"Who's  in  there  with  you,  Rosaleen?"  he  called  out.  "That 
you,  Mossy?  That  was  a  fine  feast  you  gave  us  last  night,  I 
haven't  got  over  it  yet.  Have  you  been  talking  it  over  with 
Mavourneen?  Bidn't  she  look  the  grandest  of  them  all?" 

"We  were  talking  of  Lady  Carrie,"  Mossy  answered  coolly, 
flipping  away  the  ash  from  his  cigarette.  "I  was  saying  she 
was  as  clever  as  a  monkey,  and  no  more  pays  for  her  own  clothes 
than  Julie  Stormont  does  for  her  own  jewelry.  Your  wife  here 
is  quite  shocked." 

"And  no  wonder!  I'm  surprised  at  you  talking  that  way 
of  Lady  Carrie.  No  one  knows  better  than  you  what  she  has 
gone  through,  and  the  claim  she  has  ..."  Suddenly  he 
recollected,  and  was  abruptly  quiet. 

288 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Me!  What  should  I  know?"  Mossy  asked.  "I  know  she 
would  ruin  Rothschild." 

"Well,  shut  up  about  it,  anyway."  Deny  left  the  sofa  and 
came  over  to  them.  Noticing  Rosaleen's  pallor,  he  said, 
"Late  hours  don't  agree  with  her,  do  they?" 

"She  ought  to  have  more  of  them,  that's  what's  the  matter. 
She  ought  to  go  out  more,  and  enjoy  herself." 

But  Rosaleen  turned  and  fled.  Her  heart  had  contracted 
when  Derry  told  Mossy  to  "shut  up"  about  Lady  Carrie.  His 
look  of  kindness  on  her  was  poisoned.  If  he  called  attention 
to  her  pale  looks,  wasn't  it  because  someone  else's  pleased  him 
better?  When  she  got  out  into  the  passage,  that  sob  in  her 
throat  found  vent.  She  had  not  meant  to  listen,  but  she  heard 
Berry's  voice  raised  when  he  asked  Mossy: 

"What  for  were  you  talking  about  Lady  Carrie  to  Rosaleen? 
Did  you  want  to  let  her  know  the  straits  the  poor  woman  is  in  ? 
I'm  surprised  at  you." 

Derry  thought  Mossy  Leon  knew  all  about  Sir  Harry  Car- 
thew's  death,  and  the  hand  Terence  had  had  in  it;  but  he 
forgot  always  that  Mossy  could  know  no  reason  for  the  sup- 
pression of  the  whole  subject  of  Terence  and  his  friendship  for 
Lady  Carrie  from  Rosaleen. 

"My  dear  fellow,  if  you  go  on  borrowing  money  to  pay  Lady 
Carrie's  debts,  you  won't  be  able  to  keep  it  a  secret,  that's  all 
I've  got  to  say." 

"I  am  bound  to  do  the  best  I  can  for  her?" 

"I'm  hanged  if  I  know  why!" 

"You  know,  right  enough,"  Derry  answered,  shortly. 

"I  suppose  it  is  the  usual  reason,  Mossy  said.  Then  he 
was  back  in  his  party,  repeating  good  things  that  had  been  said 
and  better  things  that  had  been  thought  of  afterwards,  giving 
incidentally  the  outline  of  an  idea  that  had  struck  him  over 
supper  for  a  musical  comedy.  Mossy  went  away  before  dinner, 
but  not  before  the  maid  had  been  in  twice  to  lay  the  table.  He 
was  hoarse  with  talking,  but  in  good  spirits;  he  never  guessed 
there  might  have  been  mischief  in  his  talk. 

Derry  was  more  solicitous  of  Rosaleen's  looks  when  she  ate 

289 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

so  poor  a  dinner.     He  pressed  food  upon  her,  and  wine.     He 
was  kindness  itself  to  her;  but  bungled  when  he  said: 

"To  think  of  a  bit  of  gaiety  oversetting  you  like  that!  Why, 
you  look  like  you  did  before  we  went  out  to  Siam!" 

It  had  slipped  out  unawares,  and  he  was  sorry  immediately; 
for  now  indeed  her  eyes  grew  suddenly  quite  mournful  and 
pathetic,  and  he  knew  he  had  hurt  her  by  remembering.  After 
that  he  would  not  let  her  go  on  with  her  farce  of  a  dinner;  instead, 
he  made  her  lie  down  on  the  drawing-room  sofa,  and,  great- 
hearted fellow  that  he  was,  he  knelt  down  before  her  and  put 
his  arms  about  her,  and  laid  his  face  against  her  hair  when  he 
whispered: 

"I  ought  not  to  have  said  it!  Forgive  me,  I'm  a  blundering 
fool.  It's  me  that  must  forget — and  haven't  I  forgotten? 
"We've  been  so  happy  together,  sweetheart.  Don't  look  like 
that;  I  wouldn't  hurt  you  for  worlds.  There's  only  you  and 
me  now,  just  you  and  me!  ..." 

With  a  dry  sob  there  broke  from  her  the  words: 

"But  it's  never  forgetting  I  am." 

"You're  tired,  mavourneen,  only  tired.  It's  happy  as  the 
day's  long  you  shall  be.  Tell  me  I  am  making  you  happy! 
I'm  thinking  now  and  again  I'm  failing  you  in  something." 

She  put  away  his  arms. 

"And  is  it  reproaching  yourself  you  are,"  she  said  passion- 
ately, "when  you've  given  jour  life  to  me?"  For  none  of  her 
sad  misreading  saw  anything  but  what  was  fine  in  him.  He 
must  never  think  she  knew,  or  suspected,  it  was  a  chivalrous 
pity  he  had  given  her,  and  that  she  had  only  known  that  miser- 
able mirage  of  happiness  while  she  was  mistaking  it  for  love. 
"It's  nothing  you  haven't  given  me,  and,  indeed,  I'm  happy 
as  the  day's  long.  I'm  tired,  only  tired." 

That  excused  the  sob,  but  those  strong  arms  would  not  be 
flung  off,  they  were  around  her  again,  and  his  lips  were  on  her 
ear. 

"  Not  too  tired  to  be  kissing  me,  and  telling  me  I  'm  forgiven  ?" 
For  it  was  as  a  lover  he  loved  her,  although  her  eyes  were  so 
blind  to  it. 

290 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

YET,  after  Mossy 's  party,  it  seemed  that  nothing  was 
the  same  with  Deny  and  Rosaleen.  Sympathy 
between  husband  and  wife  is  a  subtle  and  delicate 
mechanism,  adjusted,  as  it  were,  by  an  imperceptible  spring 
that  may  be  jarred  by  the  slightest  word  or  movement,  put  out 
of  gear  and  brought  to  a  dead-lock  without  warning.  That 
was  how  it  was  with  Deny  and  Rosaleen.  Conversation 
lagged,  the  spring  of  that,  too,  had  run  down,  they  seemed  all 
at  once  to  have  no  mutual  interests.  The  child  was  no  link 
between  them;  for  Rosaleen 's  motherhood  was  tainted.  She 
tortured  herself  with  the  thought,  as  he  laughed  and  played  with 
the  child,  that  it  was  for  her  sake  he  affected  pleasure  in  his 
false  fatherhood.  The  misunderstanding,  the  breakdown  of 
the  machinery  of  marriage,  was  all  in  her  imagination.  Derry 
was  ignorant  that  anything  had  come  between  them,  innocent 
of  offense,  he  knew  nothing  of  what  was  happening.  He  saw 
that  Rosaleen  was  out  of  spirits,  and  put  it  down  to  the  spring 
weather,  and  the  close  flat,  and  a  dozen  other  things,  he  could 
not  dream  of  the  real  cause.  He  looked  at  her  sometimes 
wistfully,  sometimes  wonderingly,  he  felt  there  must  be  defi- 
ciency in  himself. 

Not  all  at  once  did  the  enlightening  or  illumination  come 
to  him,  and  then  it  was  only  an  artificial  lighting;  it  flickered 
and  wavered,  and  lit  up  the  corner  that  was  to  have  remained 
in  darkness.  Derry  saw  with  pitiful,  half -averted  eyes,  blinded 
by  this  false  light,  that  Rosaleen  was  still  fretting  after  the 
child's  dead  father.  The  sunny  curls  and  blue  eyes  and  merry 
laughter  of  the  growing  boy  were  reminding  her  of  her  young 
lover.  Derry  had  never  grasped  the  whole  truth,  never  grown 
to  know  that  Terence  had  never  been  Rosaleen 's  lover,  Rosa- 

291 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

leen's  beloved;  he  had  only  been  her  master.  Deny  had  never 
quite  understood.  Yet  all  the  manhood  in  him  resented  her 
memories,  for  she  was  his.  But  he  must  be  gentle  with  her, 
forbearing.  There  had  never  been  anyone  like  Terence;  it 
was  not  likely  she  could  forget  him  so  soon,  he  must  not  press 
himself  on  her. 

The  more  pitiful  he  was,  and  tender,  restraining  his  love  for 
her,  giving  her  time  to  recover  her  spirits,  the  deeper  and 
more  constant  grew  the  ache  in  her  heart.  The  waters  went 
over  her  head,  waters  of  bitterness  and  humiliation,  when  she 
thought  it  was  only  her  misfortune  that  had  won  him,  that  it 
was  only  a  great,  beautiful  pity  she  had  from  him,  not  love  at 
all  as  she  had  dreamed  in  Bangkok.  When  once  this  idea  had 
taken  firm  hold  of  her,  she  often  found  herself  sobbing  in  her 
sleep.  She  knew  now  that  it  was  out  of  pity  he  had  married 
her,  and  out  of  his  fealty  to  Terence.  She  would  dream  of 
blackness  and  misery,  and  wake  sobbing.  Then  she  would 
quiet  herself,  forcing  herself  to  lie  still.  She  must  not  disturb 
him,  she  would  give  her  life  and  soul  for  him,  this  grand, 
generous  husband  of  hers.  But  she  must  stand  in  his  way  as 
little  as  possible.  That  was  why  she  urged  him  to  go  out 
more,  to  see  people;  and  because  she  urged  this,  he  thought  she 
liked  better  to  be  alone  than  to  have  him  with  her. 

This  was  Lady  Carrie's  opportunity,  of  which  she  took  such 
full  advantage. 

The  flat  in  Westminster  lost  its  charm  and  home-like  quality, 
and  seemed  to  grow  formal  and  ugly,  with  all  the  glamor  gone 
from  its  hired  furniture,  filled  only  with  stale  reminiscence  of  the 
former  people  who  had  lived  there.  The  house  in  Charles 
Street  became  something  of  a  refuge  for  Deny,  and  certainly 
Carrie  could  be  a  gay  companion  to  a  man  upon  whose  conquest 
she  was  bent.  It  never  struck  Deny  that  a  false  interpretation 
could  be  put  upon  his  friendship  with  Lady  Carrie.  His  con- 
science was  so  absolutely  clear.  If  he  feared  sometimes  that 
he  might  have  blundered  in  carrying  out  Terence's  wishes  for 
Rosaleen,  if  he  feared  lest  his  love  for  her  had  made  him  precipi- 
tate, he  never  dreamed  for  an  instant  that  he  had  blundered 

292 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

over  Terence's  obligations  to  Carrie.  He  was  meeting  them 
the  best  way  he  knew. 

He  did  not  realize  that  Lady  Carrie  was  flirting  with  him, 
he  thought  she  was  grateful  to  him  for  helping  her,  and  amusing 
and  pleasant  by  nature.  He  was  sorry  for  her  loneliness,  in 
which  he  believed  implicitly,  and  for  her  money  troubles.  When 
he  was  at  Charles  Street  he  was  certainly  quite  content  to  be 
there.  The  life  he  was  leading  in  London  did  not  suit  him  at 
all.  Carrie  talked  to  him  of  hunting  and  horses,  sometimes, 
too,  she  talked  to  him  of  Margaret.  He  did  not  recognize  the 
efforts  she  made  to  find  the  subjects  that  interested  him,  but 
whenever  she  asked  him,  he  went  to  tea  with  her.  Rosaleen 
seemed  to  want  to  be  alone  just  now,  not  to  care  for  his  com- 
pany. Derry  knew  little  about  women,  and  he  saw  nothing 
dangerous  in  Carrie.  He  had  not  a  thought  that  could  have 
wronged  or  hurt  his  wife,  if  she  had  only  known. 

But  she  did  not  know.  She  only  knew  that  he  and  Carrie 
had  been  old  friends,  and  he  did  not  want  to  talk  about  her; 
she  never  doubted  that  he  sat  with  her  every  afternoon.  She 
knew,  too,  from  Mossy  Leon,  that  he  gave  her  money.  Yet 
money  was  scarce  with  them.  She  had  been  so  proud  to  save 
it  for  him,  working,  and  guarding  his  interests,  but  the  thought 
that  she  was  saving  for  Lady  Carrie  now  turned  her  economies 
to  bitterness. 

It  was  impossible  to  suspect  Derry 's  fidelity  to  her.  In  such 
a  mind  as  hers  that  weed  could  not  grow,  there  was  no  soil  for 
it.  The  form  her  self-torture  took  was  that  Deny  had  met, 
and  cared  for,  Lady  Carrie  while  he  was  up  in  London  on  his 
visit  to  Terence,  and  that  they  may  have  been  engaged  lovers, 
when  she  and  her  misfortune  separated  them. 

She  wondered  miserably  what  explanation  Derry  had  given 
Carrie  for  having  thrown  her  over.  She  knew  he  would  have 
kept  her  own  dreadful  secret. 

The  unreasonable  estrangement  widened.  Lady  Carrie  had 
an  inkling  of  it,  and  fostered  it  all  the  time. 

Derry,  sick  at  heart,  because  he  saw  the  shadows  lying  in 
his  wife's  gray  eyes,  and  the  stars  never  shining  there  now, 

293 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

because  she  was  growing  thin,  and  her  voice  lifted  no  more  in 
song  about  the  flat,  and  because  he  misunderstood  the  genesis 
of  it,  grew  unhappy  and  restless  in  his  unhappiness,  even  as  he 
had  been  that  short  time  in  Bangkok.  This  London  life 
offered  no  relief  in  work,  and  open-air  exercise.  He  was 
hankering,  too,  after  Ranmore,  desperately  home-sick  for 
Ranmore,  and  all  that  had  made  it  home  for  him,  tired  of 
Mossy 's  talk  of  inevitable  delay,  and  the  slowness  of  the  law, 
and  the  dilatoriness  of  Carruthers.  Lady  Carrie  was  a  refuge 
from  it  all. 

Lady  Carrie  lured  him  with  talk  of  Margaret.  "  The  Duchess 
would  certainly  be  in  London  some  time  this  season."  Up  at 
Dunstans  now  she  was  detained  by  the  ever-increasing  malady 
of  the  unhappy  Duke,  but  some  time  surely  she  would  come, 
and  then  Carrie  would  speak  to  her  about  Deny,  and  bring 
about  a  meeting  between  them.  This  was  what  he  and  Carrie 
discussed  when  they  were  together,  how  he  should  get  back  into 
his  aunt's  good  graces,  how,  if  he  met  Margaret  by  accident, 
or  in  Lady  Carrie's  house  perchance,  without  any  loss  of  dig- 
nity, or  anything  in  the  nature  of  an  appeal,  she  would  under- 
stand how  it  was  with  him,  and  that  he  was  longing  for  recon- 
ciliation. This  was  all  Deny  thought  he  talked  of  with  Carrie; 
she  knew  differently. 

Lady  Carrie,  commiserating  him  on  the  dull  time  he  was 
having,  waiting  for  the  lawyers,  invited  him  to  accompany  her 
on  a  day's  racing  at  Sandown,  or  at  Kempton,  at  Hurst  Park, 
or  Windsor.  He  was  apologetic  at  first  about  these  invitations, 
although  Rosaleen  did  not  seem  to  mind  at  all.  He  explained 
the  nature  of  his  enjoyment  in  them. 

"It's  getting  a  breath  of  the  country,"  he  would  say,  stretch- 
ing his  broad  shoulders,  throwing  his  head  back  as  if  to  take  a 
long  breath.  "It's  filling  me  lungs  with  air.  Then  there  is 
seeing  the  horses  led  round  in  the  paddock,  the  glossy  necks 
and  clean  hoofs  of  them.  I  get  talking  to  trainers,  and  the 
jockeys  sometimes;  it's  all  of  the  trials  and  the  handicapping, 
and  breed  of  them,  we're  gossiping.  But  it's  a  rare  change 
from  all  that  theatre  talk  I  hear  from  Mossy.  Do  you  mind 

294 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

if  I  am  away  for  the  day?"  And  when  she  said  she  did  not 
mind  at  all: 

"But  it's  you  that's  not  caring  for  my  company  any  more," 
he  would  add,  wistfully,  with  a  desire  for  contradiction. 

Rosaleen,  who  could  have  kissed  the  places  his  feet  trod  in 
the  hall,  who  laid  kisses  among  all  his  clothes,  and  tears  among 
them,  too,  never  contradicted  him. 

She  wanted  him  to  have  his  pleasure.  It  would  have  been 
absurd  to  pretend  he  did  not  derive  enjoyment  from  these 
outings.  He  had  no  real  reason  for  unhappiness;  no  living 
rival  stood  between  him  and  the  woman  he  loved,  who  belonged 
to  him,  sleeping  each  night  by  his  side,  caring  for  him,  too,  in 
some  way,  he  knew.  He  had  only  to  be  patient.  His  nature 
was  naturally  optimistic  and  joyful.  In  his  light  clothes,  with 
his  race-glasses  slung  across  his  shoulders,  he  had  something 
of  a  boy's  excitement  over  the  prospect  of  a  day's  pleasure. 
She  saw  it  in  his  eyes. 

And  sometimes — so  strange  a  thing  is  a  loving  woman — 
the  exhilaration  in  his  eyes  gave  her  that  thrill  of  sympathy 
which  is  almost  a  mother's  privilege  of  emotion.  But  then, 
there  is  no  woman  loving  a  man  as  Rosaleen  loved  Deny  that 
has  not  something  of  the  mother-feeling  toward  him.  She 
did  so  want  him  to  be  happy.  Surely,  she  thought,  it  was  to 
the  racing  and  the  open  air  he  was  looking  forward,  not  to 
Lady  Carrie.  That  was  when  he  stood  so  tall  and  fine  before 
her,  with  the  look  of  exhilaration  in  his  eyes,  but  never  for- 
getting to  bid  her  take  care  of  herself,  and  to  hope  she  wasn't 
feeling  dull.  Afterward,  when  she  was  alone,  of  course,  the 
reflection  that  all  his  enjoyment  was  in  Lady  Carrie's  company 
came  back  to  her  bitterly  enough. 

The  "day's  racing"  took  place  very  often.  Then,  there 
was  polo  at  Hurlingham  and  Ranelagh.  Lady  Carrie  and 
her  sporting  acquaintances  were  so  much  more  to  Berry's 
taste  than  Mossy 's  theater  friends. 

Carrie  scored  all  the  time,  and  she  knew  well  enough  she  was 
scoring,  although  she  had  only  seen  Rosaleen  three  times 
altogether.  Deny  took  Rosaleen  to  Charles  Street  one  after- 

295 


LET  THE  ROOF  #ALL  IN 

noon.  A  few  days  later  Carrie  dutifully  returned  the  call  at 
the  flat.  On  the  occasion  of  Rosaleen  's  reluctant  visit  to  Charles 
Street,  Carrie  contrived  to  show  how  many  times  Deny  had  been 
in  the  artificial  atmosphere  of  that  pretty  drawing-room,  and 
how  familiar  he  was  with  the  way  of  the  house.  Lady  Carrie 
sent  Derry  downstairs  to  find  cigarettes  and  matches.  She 
reminded  him  of  the  day  the  Princess  Zoto  of  Roumania  had 
smoked  them  out  with  her  scented  "cigarellos,"  and  they  had 
had  to  take  refuge  in  her  boudoir  afterward.  She  proved  in 
a  dozen  small  ways  the  intimacy  that  poor  Rosaleen  never 
queried.  She  did  it  with  intent,  although  there  was  nothing 
to  be  gained  by  it;  it  was  only  because  she  was  naturally  feline 
and  mischievous,  and  she  thought  Rosaleen 's  forlorn  attitude 
ridiculous.  Derry  missed  reading  the  riddle  of  her  face,  but 
Carrie  missed  nothing. 

When  Lady  Carrie  paid  that  obligatory  return  visit  to  the 
flat,  Derry  was  at  home  to  receive  her.  She  had  arranged  with 
him  the  time  of  her  call.  Rosaleen  knew  that,  because  Derry 
had  ingenuously  told  her,  knowing  no  reason  for  concealing  it. 

She  had  come  in  all  her  frou-frou  of  fine  clothes,  and  style, 
and  had  stayed  less  than  ten  minutes,  looking  about  her  with 
quick  and  affected  surprise,  asking  Derry  how  he  could  bear 
to  live  with  other  people's  furniture,  and  such  furniture!  She 
had  openly  sympathized  with  the  conditions  of  his  life.  She 
had  called  him  "poor  Derry,"  and  had  said  she  really  must 
find  means  to  reconcile  him  with  his  people. 

Rosaleen's  attitude  added  zest  to  Carrie's  pursuit  of  Derry. 
It  was  pleasant  enough  to  have  a  cavalier  upon  whose  escort 
she  could  depend  to  execute  her  racing  commissions,  take  her 
tickets,  get  her  lunch  and  tea,  play  the  cavalier  servente.  Lady 
Carrie  always  had,  and  always  would  have,  someone  dangling 
after  her,  attached  to  her  suite,  as  it  were.  Derry  did  not  make 
love  to  her;  she  had  not  brought  him  to  that  point  yet,  although 
she  had  hopes  of  it;  but  he  was  very  good  to  look  upon,  and 
easy  to  lead.  Whatever  he  had,  she  could  get  from  him;  he  was 
certainly  an  acquisition.  That  he  had  a  wife,  a  dumb,  mournful 
peasant,  as  Carrie  characterized  Rosaleen  scornfully,  was  no 

296 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

drawback,  rather  the  contrary.  Lady  Carrie  did  not  want  to 
marry  again,  unless,  of  course,  marriage  should  ensure  a  fine 
settlement;  she  had  had  enough  of  marriage  with  Sir  Henry 
Carthew,  and  her  temperament  was  really  cold.  What  she 
wanted  was  to  enjoy  herself.  The  conquest  of  Derry,  or  of 
any  man,  became  interesting  to  her  only  when  it  was  in  battle 
between  herself  and  another  woman.  Rosaleen  was  her  enemy 
while  Derry  was  still  unconquered.  He  paid  her  compliments, 
of  course;  was  he  not  an  Irishman?  But  of  love-making  there 
was  none.  Carrie  was  annoyed  about  it  sometimes;  he  ought 
to  make  love  to  her.  She  knew  it  was  Rosaleen  that  stood  in 
her  way,  and  she  began  to  dislike  Rosaleen. 

The  climax  came  with  the  invitation  to  stay  at  Ascot  for  a 
week. 

"The  Brinmores  have  told  me  to  bring  anyone  I  like;  they 
want  one  man  to  complete  the  party,"  Carrie  told  Derry.  "It's 
a  very  pleasant  house  to  stay  at,  they  do  you  well  all  round. 
Brinmore  drives  a  four-in-hand;  we  get  over  to  the  course  in 
under  an  hour.  Jack  Brinmore  has  always  horses  running, 
and,  as  he  trains  with  Finnemore,  he  gets  to  hear  one  or  two  really 
good  things  in  the  course  of  a  meeting.  You  can't  expect  more 
than  that." 

The  invitation  had  been  sprung  upon  Derry  the  evening  she 
had  driven  him  home  from  Ranelagh  in  the  dusk,  after  dining 
in  his  company.  It  had  all  been  very  pleasant.  But  to  spend 
Ascot  week  away  from  home!  She  could  see  him  hesitating 
as  he  stood  on  the  doorstep  to  say  good-bye  to  her. 

"It's  a  pleasant  time  we've  had." 

"It  will  be  pleasanter  at  Ascot." 

Then  she  found  her  lever.  If  Margaret  would  go  anywhere 
at  all,  with  the  Duke  in  his  present  condition,  she  would  go  to 
the  Brinmores.  In  any  case,  she  was  certain  to  be  over  to  the 
racing  for  one  day. 

"That  is  why  I've  practically  settled  it.  I  said  you  would 
come  with  me.  Three  years  ago  Terence  went  with  me.  It's 
not  the  place  a  woman  can  go  by  herself.  They  don't  expect  it 
of  one.  I  am  sure  it  will  all  come  right  with  you  and  the 
Duchess  if  you  get  face  to  face." 

297 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

She  intended  to  carry  Deny  to  Ascot  with  her;  she  did  not 
care  with  what  argument  she  baited  the  hook.  The  Duchess 
was  just  as  likely  to  be  staying  with  the  Brinmores  for  Ascot  as 
she  would  be  to  quarter  herself  on  the  Mossy  Leons,  for  instance, 
for  the  London  season,  but  this,  of  course,  Deny  could  not 
know.  He  was  told  he  would  be  able  to  ride  over  to  Ascot,  if  he 
preferred  it  to  driving.  He  heard  of  Jack's  fine  racquet-court, 
in  which  there  was  generally  a  game  to  be  had  before  they  started 
for  the  course.  Nothing  was  said  about  the  bridge,  and  the  little 
game  of  baccarat,  that  wound  up  the  evenings.  She  knew  it 
was  racquets  and  tennis,  and,  above  all,  the  horses,  that  would 
tempt  Derry  if  the  prospect  of  meeting  his  cousin  was  too  remote. 

"I'd  go  like  a  shot,  I'd  go  in  a  minute,  but  I  don't  like  leaving 
Rosaleen.  It's  herself  that's  looking  peaky,  and  wants  a  change 
of  air."  He  hesitated,  the  prospect  held  out  was  very  pleasant; 
he  would  like  to  be  out  of  London,  he  was  longing  to  meet 
Margaret,  he  loved  racing. 

"But  she  won't  be  dull,"  Carrie  urged.  "She  has  her  beauti- 
ful boy." 

Lady  Came  had  never  seen  little  Terence.  She  openly 
admitted  she  could  not  bear  children;  they  monopolized  conver- 
sation, and  seemed  to  her  of  no  interest.  "  Or  why,"  she  went 
on,  "if  you  say  she  is  looking  peaky,  why  don't  you  send  them 
both  away  to  the  seaside  while  you  are  with  me?  You  could 
join  them  at  the  end  of  the  week.  Why  not  Folkestone?  I 
might  go  down  with  you  from  Ascot  to  Folkestone,  and  run  over 
to  Paris  for  a  few  days.  There  isn't  a  decent  hat  to  be  found  in 
London.  I  don't  believe  I  could  do  better  than  run  over  to 
Paris." 

All  this  was  not  said  on  the  doorstep  of  Charles  Street;  but  the 
next  day,  and  the  next,  Derry  restlessly  moving  from  one  chintz 
easy-chair  to  another  in  the  Charles  Street  drawing-room,  was 
allowing  himself  to  be  allured.  Carrie  thought  Folkestone  was 
an  inspiration.  Derry  would  bore  himself  to  death  in  Folke- 
stone lodgings  after  a  week  at  the  Brinmores'.  Paris  is  the  one 
place  impossible  to  be  about  in  alone.  He  would  probably 
jump  at  the  chance  of  seeing  her  over,  and,  once  there,  she  had 

298 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

no  doubt  he  would  stay  as  long  as  she  wanted  him.  She  urged 
the  advantages  of  the  Folkestone  plan  upon  Deny.  He  agreed 
that  the  sea  air  might  do  wonders  for  Rosaleen  and  the  boy, 
although  he  would  make  no  promise  about  Ascot.  He  must 
first  see  what  Rosaleen  had  to  say  about  it. 

"Not  but  what  the  boy  looks  a  picture.  It's  she  that  has 
grown  thin." 

But  he  could  not  talk  about  Rosaleen  to  Carrie.  He  was 
worried  about  her,  although  again  and  again  she  assured  him 
she  was  quite  well.  It  never  even  vaguely  occurred  to  him 
that  his  intimacy  with  Lady  Carrie  had  any  connection  with 
Rosaleen' s  altered  looks. 

Mrs.  Mossy  Leon,  who  was  very  attentive  to  Lady  Ranmore, 
and  frequently  called  to  invite  her  for  a  drive,  offers  which 
Lady  Ranmore  almost  as  frequently  declined,  supplied  an 
explanation. 

"When  are  you  going  to  take  steps  about  your  wife's  presen- 
tation?" Mrs.  Mossy  Leon  said  to  him,  one  night  at  the  theatre. 

Mossy  had  taken  stalls  for  the  four  of  them,  and  Rosaleen 
wore  her  champagne-colored  dress.  She  had  grown  too  thin 
for  it,  and  now  the  fit  did  Madame  Festoon  no  credit,  but  she 
was  striving  to  respond  to  Mossy's  witty  gossip,  and  he  was  very 
content  with  her  society. 

"Her  presentation?" 

"She  ought  to  have  been  presented  on  her  marriage.  Of 
course  the  Dowager  would  be  the  right  person,  or,  if  she  is  still 
in  mourning,  then  the  Duchess  of  Towcester.  But,  failing 
either,  there  is  Lady  Carrie  ..." 

"Oh,  I  can't  think  of  it  at  all,"  Deny  answered  hastily. 

He  did  not  know  why  he  couldn't  think  of  asking  Lady  Carrie 
to  take  the  place  of  his  aunt  or  cousin;  the  whole  idea  was  new 
to  him,  and  distasteful. 

"I  think  she  is  fretting  about  it,"  Ethel  went  on  relentlessly. 
"  It  is  such  a  slight,  and  under  the  circumstances,  you  know.  .  . " 

Deny  was  really  startled.  The  play  lost  its  interest,  and  the 
supper  at  the  Savoy,  that  followed  it,  was  dust  and  ashes  in  his 
mouth.  Surely  Rosaleen  would  not  think  he  meant  to  slight 

299 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

her.  He  glanced  at  her  across  the  supper-table.  How  beautiful 
she  was!  And  she  smiled  back  at  him,  for,  at  the  same  moment, 
she  was  thinking  that  not  a  man  in  the  room  was  as  fine  as  he. 
When  they  had  come  into  the  room,  everybody  had  turned  to 
look  at  him.  She  always  thought  it  was  at  him  people  looked. 
But  Deny  saw  that  her  smile  had  lost  its  youthfulness.  Could 
she  possibly  be  thinking  he  meant  to  slight  her  over  that  presen- 
tation, had  he  been  dull,  or  obtuse,  and  missed  the  cause  of  her 
changed  demeanor;  it  seemed  absurd,  impossible  that  she  should 
care  for  such  a  thing  ?  The  band  had  been  playing  "  The  wearing 
of  the  green,"  and  perhaps  that  accounted  for  the  lines  into 
which  her  face  fell  after  that  smile.  It  is  a  wonderfully  sad 
piece  of  music,  Derry  thought,  watching  her.  It  was  impossible 
she  was  fretting  about  not  having  been  presented.  She  could 
not  think  he  meant  to  slight  her,  to  keep  her  from  her  rightful 
position. 

In  the  cab,  going  home  after  supper,  Derry  questioned 
Rosaleen.  Somehow  or  other  his  arms  had  grown  a  little  shy; 
they  no  longer  went  so  certainly  and  instinctively  about  her. 

"Is  it  dull  you  are  in  the  flat?  Is  it  more  society  you're 
wanting?  Mrs.  Leon,  she's  thinking  you're  fretting  over  not 
being  presented.  It's  proud  enough  I'd  be  to  take  you  to  Court. 
And  the  Queen,  God  bless  her,  and  Him,  too,  they'd  love  to 
know  you.  I  was  only  waiting" — Derry  hesitated,  but,  after 
all,  he  thought,  why  shouldn't  she  know  his  hopes? — "until 
me  aunt  came  round,  or  Margaret.  It's  Margaret  would  be 
proud  to  present  you." 

"It  isn't  dull  I  am.  And  why  should  I  be  fretting?  Don't 
think  of  it,"  she  answered  him. 

"And  it  isn't  fretting  after  anything  or  anybody  you'd  be  if 
I  could  help  it."  The  tenderness  in  his  heart  was  so  great 
that  it  drove  the  timidity  from  his  arms.  He  put  them  about 
her,  and  her  head  rested  a  minute  against  his  shoulder. 

"I'd  like  to  see  you  happier,"  he  said. 

She  hadn't  a  word  to  answer  him.  But  she  rested  there, 
against  his  shoulder,  all  the  way  home,  wishing  the  drive  could 
last  forever. 

300 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

All  the  deep  springs  of  her  nature  were  frozen  and  congested 
by  the  passion  of  her  feeling  for  him,  and  her  gratitude.  She 
had,  perhaps,  forgotten  it  in  Siam  for  a  time,  accepting  the  joy 
of  her  daily  life  without  thinking  always  of  its  source.  Since 
the  vision  of  Lady  Carrie  had  intervened  she  had  had  no  hour 
of  this  unalloyed  joy.  She  was  thinking  always  of  what  he  had 
done,  and  why  he  had  done  it.  By  now,  she  had  quite  forgotten 
that  once  she  had  hoped  he  cared  about  her  for  herself,  that  once 
she  had  thought  he  did.  In  her  mind  now  was  the  fixed  idea 
that  it  was  the  Lady  Carrie  he  had  cared  about,  long  ago,  for 
herself  he  had  a  kindly  pity,  nothing  else.  But  yet  she  might 
have  said  a  word  to  him,  have  let  fall  one  that  would  have  given 
him  a  clue,  when  he  held  her  like  this,  and  his  arms  were  com- 
forting about  her,  and  her  tired  head  rested  against  his 
shoulder. 

"You  are  growing  thin,"  he  went  on,  as  he  held  her.  "I 
was  talking  about  it  to  Lady  Carrie  to-day,  telling  her  you  were 
not  looking  strong  at  all."  If  her  lips  tightened  he  did  not 
see  it,  her  head  was  against  his  coat,  and  now  she  could  feel  his 
breath  stir  her  hair.  "I  can't  have  you  leaving  me  bit  by  bit, 
an  ounce  to-day  and  a  pound  to-morrow."  His  tone  was  light, 
but  the  feeling  underneath  it  was  deep.  "I'd  like  to  see  you 
happy.  You're  not  used  to  London  ways,  and  you're  getting 
tired  of  them.  Will  you  be  happier  by  the  sea,  with  the  boy? 
Is  it  more  air  you're  wanting?  Why  not  be  going  off  to  the 
sea  with  the  boy?" 

It  was  then  he  told  her  of  his  own  invitation  to  Ascot.  Her 
head  lay  still  against  his  shoulder,  and  she  never  stirred. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  going  away  without  you,  but  if  you'd  be 
happier  ..."  Again  his  tone  was  wistful. 

"It's  not  happier  I'd  be  without  you.  An'  it's  not  my 
happiness  I'm  wearing  after,"  she  said  hastily. 

He  drew  her  closer.  Of  course,  she  was  thinking  of  that 
young  life  that  had  been  brought  to  so  quick  and  cruel  a  close; 
he  felt  he  would  have  given  the  world  to  make  her  forget. 

"Is  it  better  when  I'm  beside  you,  then?"  he  whispered. 
To-night  it  seemed  his  patience  was  failing  him  a  little,  and 
20  301 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

he  must  have  reassurance  from  her.  "You're  not  disliking 
me  altogether?" 

She  gave  a  little  low  laugh. 

"Haven't  you  been  Providence,  and  all  to  me?" 

"But  it's  not  gratitude  I'm  wanting.   ..." 

"And  how  can  I  help  being  grateful?" 

Then  the  cab  stopped. 

When  there  is  a  misunderstanding  between  husband  and 
wife,  words  are  necessary  for  its  full  elucidation.  For  a  satis- 
factory readjustment  of  delicate  machinery,  the  flaw  that  has 
caused  the  jar  must  be  discovered. 

For  all  its  crawling,  the  cab  stopped  too  soon  that  night  at 
the  Westminster  flat. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  next  time  Derry  saw  Lady  Carrie  he  told  her  he 
had  decided  against  the  week  at  Ascot.  Rosaleen  did 
not  seem  to  like  the  idea  of  going  to  Folkestone  without 
him.  Altogether  it  seemed  a  selfish  plan,  and  he  would  give 
it  up. 

Carrie  was  furious.  She  had  the  emotion  one  could  imagine 
in  a  world-renowned  wrestler,  thrown  in  an  early  round  by  a 
bungling  amateur.  It  was  an  accident,  it  could  only  have  been 
an  accident,  but  it  was  intensely  galling  to  her  pride.  She  con- 
cealed her  feelings  from  Derry,  but  dwelt  upon  all  the  pleasure 
he  was  missing;  it  was  only  regret  she  expressed  to  him,  not 
anger. 

He  came  away  from  that  interview  rather  pleased  with  his 
own  magnanimity  for  refusing  the  invitation,  but  rather  sorry 
for  Lady  Carrie,  who  told  him  she  had  quite  counted  upon  him, 
and  that  it  was  too  late  to  find  another  cavalier. 

It  was  natural  Rosaleen  should  gather  something  of  his  state 
of  mind.  It  was  not  against  the  visit  to  Ascot  she  had  protested, 
but  at  being  sent  to  Folkestone.  Where  Derry  and  the  boy 
were,  was  home  for  Rosaleen.  The  Westminster  flat  had  still 
that  distinction. 

"Do  you  go  to  Ascot,  it's  a  fine  time  you'll  be  having  there, 
and  I  '11  like  to  hear  of  it.  But  let  me  stay  here  with  Sonny." 

"I'll  not  be  leaving  you  behind  me  in  London,  while  I'm 
enjoying  myself  in  the  country.  I'd  have  liked  to  be  taking 
you  down  with  me.  It  wouldn  't  be  half  a  holiday  without  you. 
But  it's  only  meself  Lady  Carrie  has  asked,  worse  luck.  I'll 
not  be  going  at  all.  Put  it  away  from  your  mind." 

But  in  the  evening,  after  he  had  seen  Lady  Carrie,  and  all 
that  he  was  missing  had  been  explained  to  him,  he  spoke  abtmt 

303 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

it  again.  It  wasn  't  exactly  that  he  was  wavering,  but  if  Rosaleen 
had  cared  to  go  to  Folkestone,  and  get  a  breath  of  sea  air,  why, 
he  admitted,  he  could  have  had  a  fine  time  at  Ascot. 

He  told  her  all  about  the  racquet-court  that  Brinmore  had 
built.  He  said  it  was  so  long  since  he  had  taken  any  exercise, 
he  did  not  believe  he  would  be  any  good  at  all.  This  was  while 
they  were  still  at  dinner.  Afterward,  when  he  was  filling  his 
pipe,  he  made  her  feel  his  muscle,  to  realize  how  it  had  atten- 
uated, though  there  was  not  much  slackness  perceptible.  Now 
he  put  the  pipe  on  the  mantlepiece  while  he  walked  about,  and 
made  movements  as  if  practising  with  a  dumb-bell. 

"I'll  be  falling  off  me  horse,  like  that  man  we  saw  at  Mossy  ^ 
party,  and  the  racquet  will  be  too  heavy  for  my  hand.  It's 
a  poor  husband  you're  getting,  Rosaleen.  I'll  have  to  be 
looking  for  work,  if  things  don't  right  themselves  soon." 

Then,  because  this  was  the  mood  into  which  Lady  Carrie's 
talk  had  brought  him,  he  gave  vent  to  some  of  the  vexation  of 
spirit  he  felt  over  the  tedious  delays  Mossy  and  Carruthers  were 
making,  and  his  regrets  that  there  seemed  no  way  to  overcome 
the  dislike  the  Dowager  had  taken  to  him,  or  to  circumvent, 
without  actually  commencing  an  action,  the  efforts  she  was 
making  to  bar  him  from  the  enjoyment  of  the  estate. 

"If  I  hadn't  made  a  vow  that  I'd  never  enter  Ranmore  until 
she  made  me  welcome  there,  I  'd  be  taking  you  over." 

And,  walking  up  and  down,  puffing  at  his  pipe,  he  could  not 
conceal  his  longing,  and  constant  homesickness,  for  his  own 
people,  and  his  own  country.  She  had  known  he  fretted  for 
reconciliation  and  Ranmore,  but  she  had  not  perhaps  quite 
understood  until  now,  when  he  voiced  it,  how  deep  it  lay  within 
him.  To  her,  home  meant  Deny  and  the  boy;  to  him,  it  meant 
— Ranmore.  Here  in  London  he  felt  as  if  in  prison.  The 
close  flat,  the  thick  air,  the  pavement,  all  suggested  captivity, 
and  it  seemed  that  all  the  exercise  he  had  was  walking  in  the 
prison  yard.  He  was  no  Londoner,  the  metropolis  was  not  in 
his  blood.  The  blue  mountains  with  the  mists  upon  them,  and 
the  soft  humid  days,  haunted  him.  It  was  Ireland  of  the  many 
sfteams,  and  lush  greens,  he  saw  in  his  dreams;  and  in  the  day- 

304 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

time,  above  the  roar  of  the  traffic  and  the  tunes  of  the  barrel- 
organs,  he  heard  the  call  of  curlew  and  heron. 

So  he  expressed  his  mood.  But  it  was  only  a  mood  of  the 
moment,  an  echo  or  reflection  of  things  Lady  Carrie  had  been 
saying  to  him  that  afternoon.  He  was  not  really  quite  so  rest- 
less, or  dissatisfied,  or  impatient  as  he  made  himself  out  to  be, 
although,  of  course,  it  was  true  that  he  was  always  homesick 
for  Ranmore. 

It  was  nevertheless  this  transient  dissatisfaction  of  Derry's 
that  made  Lady  Carrie's  task  so  easy  when  she  came  to  see 
Rosaleen.  The  more  Lady  Carrie  thought  of  her  defeat,  the 
more  she  resented  it.  Derry  must  take  her  to  Ascot.  That 
incongruous,  unnecessary,  incubus  of  a  wife  of  his  must  be 
made  to  see  the  necessity.  The  first  throw  was  nothing.  Meta- 
phorically she  girded  up  her  loins;  literally,  she  put  on  her  best 
clothes,  and  ordered  the  carriage  for  three  o'clock.  She  would 
let  his  wife  know  that  she  was  standing  in  his  way. 

Derry  had  sighed  when  he  had  told  her  he  could  not  go  with 
her.  He  may  have  chafed  a  little  at  his  fetters;  the  desire  for 
freedom  surges  over  a  man  sometimes,  over  the  most  contented 
of  married  men.  The  prospect  of  a  week 's  racing  had  certainly 
been  attractive  to  Derry,  and  when  he  told  Lady  Carrie  he 
must  give  it  up  because  Rosaleen  did  not  want  to  go  away,  and 
he  would  not  leave  her  alone  in  London,  he  may  have  sighed. 
Yet  neither  the  sighing  nor  the  restlessness  meant  more  than 
the  mood  of  a  moment. 

But  Lady  Carrie  determined  that  he  should  not  miss  his 
racing,  nor  she  his  company,  to  please  his  peasant-wife.  It 
was  for  that  she  went  to  see  her.  She  must  have  known  Rosa- 
leen was  alone  that  day,  for  it  was  she  who  had  sent  Derry  to 
Tattersall  's.  If  she  spoke  and  thought  of  Rosaleen  as  a  peasant, 
she  dressed  for  her  as  if  she  had  been  one  of  her  own  set. 

Rosaleen  had  not  learned  the  trick  of  saying  she  was  not  at 
home  when  she  was  disinclined  for  company,  so  Lady  Carrie 
had  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  admittance.  As  usual  Rosaleen 
was  at  needlework;  it  was  her  great  companion  when  Derry  was 
out.  She  filled  her  days  with  darning  Derry's  socks  and 

305 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

underwear,  making  little  garments  for  the  boy,  keeping  her 
household  linen  in  repair.  She  was  engaged  on  the  underwear 
when  Lady  Carrie  came  to  see  her  for  the  second  time,  resplend- 
ent in  her  Parisian  raiment  and  brightly  plumaged  hat. 

Rosaleen  sat  at  her  needlework  in  the  dining-room,  for  there 
the  table  was  most  convenient.  The  furniture  was  of  fumed 
oak  and  the  upholstery  was  in  cretonne.  On  the  walls  were 
modern  mezzo-tint  engravings  after  Luke  Fildes  and  Frank 
Dicksee,  cold  impressions  from  steel-faced  plates.  The  carpet 
was  a  little  worn,  and  protected  by  a  white  drugget.  From  the 
red  jute  curtains  at  the  window,  to  the  heavy  oak-framed  mirror 
over  the  mantel,  there  was  nothing  in  the  room  to  gratify  'a 
cultivated  taste,  nor  to  content  an  educated  intelligence.  Lady 
Carrie  truly  shuddered.  She  talked  desultorily,  almost  nerv- 
ously, for  a  few  moments.  It  was  the  room  that  affected  her 
nerves,  for  really  she  had  the  courage  of  her  heartlessness,  and 
was  drawing  taut  her  muscles  for  the  bout.  She  laid  a  gloved 
hand  on  the  undervest  Rosaleen  was  darning. 

"Is  this  the  way  you  spend  your  time?  Poor  old  Deny! 
Does  he  sit  of  an  afternoon  in  this  awful  room,  and  watch  you 
darning  away  at  his  underwear?" 

"It's  yourself  that  knows  best  where  Deny  sits,"  Rosaleen 
was  stung  into  retorting;  but  she  got  up,  and  folded  away  her 
work.  "Mary  will  be  taking  the  tea  into  the  drawing-room," 
she  said,  "will  you  come?"  There  were  sofas  and  easy-chairs 
in  the  drawing-room,  some  flowers  and  books,  it  was  at  least 
habitable. 

"Why  do  you  say  I  must  know  best  where  Deny  sits?  Is 
it  meant  for  sarcasm,  or  don't  you  like  Deny  to  come  and  see 
me?" 

Lady  Carrie  could  affect  simplicity,  too.  If  she  was  going 
into  the  ring,  she  was  quite  ready  to  shake  hands  first,  she  knew 
all  the  rules. 

"Because  you've  only  got  to  say  so,"  she  went  on.  "I 
believe  in  women  being  straightforward  with  each  other.  I 
thought  it  possible  something  of  that  sort  might  be  in  your 
mind.  You  come  with  him  so  seldom.  Why  don't  you  come 

306 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

with  him  oftener?  I'm  sure  I  should  always  be  charmed  to 
see  you." 

Rosaleen  had  no  answer  ready  for  the  moment.  Then  she 
said,  hesitatingly: 

"It's  you  that  can  talk  to  Deny." 

"  Of  course  I  can  talk  to  Derry;  we're  such  old  friends.  You 
mustn't  forget  I  knew  him  before  you  were  married.  That  is 
really  half  the  reason  I'm  here  to-day.  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
about  Derry.  You  know  he  isn't  looking  at  all  well." 

Rosaleen  also  tried  to  brace  her  muscles,  although  she  had 
no  heart  for  the  fight.  She,  too,  knew  instinctively  that  it  was 
going  to  be  a  fight,  and  that  she  was  ill-prepared. 

"Not  looking  well!"  she  answered  mechanically. 

"Haven't  you  noticed  it?  He  was  speaking  to  me  about  it 
himself.  His  muscle  is  going,  he  says.  He  is  getting  flabby. 
Hasn't  he  said  anything  to  you  about  it?" 

"He  said  that." 

"You  don't  mind  my  being  frank  with  you,  do  you?  I  am 
fond  of  Derry,  and  I  hate  to  see  him  going  downhill.  He  is 
fretting  at  the  estrangement  from  his  family.  I've  come  to 
talk  to  you  quite  seriously  about  that.  It  is  time  something  was 
done.  There  is  no  use  leaving  the  lawyers  to  wrangle  and 
quibble  indefinitely  ?  What  is  needed  is  a  woman 's  hand,  I  'm 
quite  certain  of  that,  it  is  diplomacy,  not  law,  that  is  wanted. 
Did  he  tell  you  I  want  him  to  go  to  the  Brinmores  for  Ascot 
week  ?  And  that  it  is  almost  certain  the  Duchess  will  be  there  ? 
Don't  you  think  you  are  rather  narrow  minded  in  shutting  him 
away  from  all  his  friends?" 

The  suggestion  that  it  was  she  who  was  keeping  Derry  from 
his  friends  had  time  to  sink  into  Rosaleen 's  mind  while  the 
conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  maid  bringing  in  the  tea, 
lighting  the  lamp  under  the  kettle,  and  returning  with  cake  and 
bread  and  butter.  When  she  had  gone,  Rosaleen  said,  her  hand 
trembling  over  the  sugar-tongs: 

"It's  not  me  that  is  standing  in  the  way  of  Derry 's  going  to 
Ascot.  I  am  willing  enough  for  him  to  go." 

"My  dear  thing" — it  was  the  fashionable  mode  of  expression 

307 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

that  season — "I  am  sure  you  would  not  be  selfish  for  the  world. 
But  the  fact  remains  that  it  was  all  arranged  Deny  should  come 
with  me  to  Ascot,  and  you  should  take  your  baby  to  Folkestone. 
Naturally  when  you  wouldn  't  go  to  Folkestone,  Deny  wouldn  't 
go  to  Ascot.  You  have  your  methods.  ..."  and  Carrie 
shrugged  her  shoulders,  as  if  she  understood  that  Rosaleen  had 
been  diplomatic  in  her  opposition  to  Deny 's  suggested  holiday. 

"I've  no  method  at  all." 

Lady  Carrie  took  the  cup  of  tea  Rosaleen  handed  her,  and 
she  nibbled  at  a  piece  of  bread  and  butter,  her  veil  only  half 
lifted  to  free  her  mouth. 

"You  say  you  want  him  to  go  and  enjoy  himself.  But  he 
is  much  too  good-hearted  to  be  happy  away,  if  you  are  moping 
and  discontented  at  home."  She  added,  with  an  affectation  of 
hesitation,  "jealous  of  all  his  old  friends." 

She  finished  her  bread  and  butter. 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  have  another  cup  of  tea.  One  lump  of 
sugar,  please.  You  see  what  I  mean.  You  are  really  ham- 
pering Deny;  he  ought  to  go  about  and  see  people.  It  is  very 
likely  he  will  meet  his  cousin  at  Ascot.  For  my  part,  I  look 
upon  it  as  vital  that  he  should  be  there.  You  don't  mind  my 
speaking  plainly,  I  hope?  The  fact  is  Deny  is  chafing  under 
his  chains,  panting  for  more  freedom." 

She  noted  the  pale  face  of  the  other,  and  the  hands  that  shook 
among  the  teacups.  "In  our  set,  you  know — and,  after  all,  it 
is  to  us  Deny  belongs — it  is  not  usual  for  a  wife  to  drag  on  to 
her  husband's  coat-tails.  Our  men  hunt,  and  shoot,  and  go 
about  the  world.  Of  course,  Deny  is  trying  to  meet  your 
requirements,  the  bourgeouis  ideal,  domesticity,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing."  She  spoke  with  a  tolerant  contempt.  "But 
is  it  quite  fair  to  him  to  press  your  claims  so  heavily?  I  only 
put  it  to  you,  is  it  fair?" 

What  a  poor-spirited  creature  was  this  wife  of  Deny's!  She 
was  putting  up  no  fight  at  all.  Carrie  wanted  her  to  speak. 
There  is  very  little  pleasure  in  wrestling  with  a  lame  opponent. 
Even  a  bull-fight  loses  it  charm  if  the  bull  cowers  timorously  in 
a  corner. 

308 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"You  can  tie  him  to  your  apron-strings,  and  he  won't  pull 
away  for  fear  of  hurting  you.  He  is  the  most  kindhearted  man 
I  've  ever  met.  But  if  you  keep  a  dog  on  too  short  a  chain,  and 
he  is  for  ever  straining,  and  straining  .  .  .  well,  it  is  very  bad 
for  him,  to  say  the  least  of  it." 

Rosaleen  left  off  that  pretence  of  making  tea. 

"It's  me  that's  chaining  Deny,  you  think?" 

"My  dear  thing,  look  at  what  is  happening.  You  can't  pre- 
tend you  don 't  know  why  they  won 't  settle  up  the  affairs  of  the 
estate,  or  see  him,  or  anything!" 

"You're  meaning ?"  she  asked,  breathlessly.     Indeed, 

she  had  known,  but  even  to  herself  she  had  not  worded  her 
knowledge.  For  if  it  were  true,  what  could  she  do?  Yet, 
even  as  Lady  Carrie  was  speaking,  she  knew  what  she 
should  do. 

"You  can't  pretend  to  think  that  if  Deny  had  married  in  his 
own  order,  married  me,  for  instance,  the  Ranmores  would  have 
behaved  as  they  are  doing  now?  I  wouldn't  hurt  your  feelings 
for  the  world,  but  you  know  what  these  people  are — proud  as 
Lucifer,  thinking  the  Ranmores  really  do  count  in  the  scheme 
of  creation.  You  did  not  expect  them  to  be  pleased  when 
Terence's  heir  ran  away  with,  and  married  his  aunt's  maid." 

"I  was  not  expecting  anything,"  Rosaleen  answered  for- 
lornly, with  paling  lips.  She  knew  so  much  more  about  that 
marriage  than  did  Lady  Carrie. 

"Now,  do  think  of  all  this  before  it  is  too  late.  You  can,  as 
I  say,  play  on  his  good-nature,  and  keep  him  boxed  up  here — 
but  is  it  wise  ?  I  'm  only  speaking  for  your  own  good.  Nobody 
understands  what  it  means.  For  all  the  social  position  you  are 
taking,  you  might  just  as  well  not  have  been  married  to  him  at  all. 
Of  course,  you  know  that  is  what  some  people  are  saying.  ..." 

She  paused.     Rosaleen  was  gazing  at  her  with  startled  eyes. 

"They're  saying  that!"  she  gasped. 

"What  can  you  expect?"  Carrie  shrugged  her  shoulders 
again.  "It  is  rather  a  pity  ..."  This  time  the  pause  was 
more  abrupt. 

"You're  thinking  it's  a  pity  he  ever  married  me  at  all." 

309 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Poor  old  Deny!  After  all  it  is  only  natural  that  I  should 
feel  sorry  for  all  his  deprivations.  ..."  She  looked  round 
the  room  again,  expressively,  "and  his  lack  of  freedom.  ..." 
She  sighed  impatiently.  "But  there  is  no  use  talking  of  it." 

"Deny  goes  out  by  himself  every  single  day."  The  words 
came  with  a  sob. 

"For  an  hour  or  two,"  Lady  Carrie  said,  scornfully.  "Your 
hand  is  on  the  end  of  the  chain  all  the  time." 

"It's  me  that's  holding  him?" 

"What  else  are  you  doing?    This  Ascot  visit,  now  .    .    ." 

"Have  done  with  your  Ascot  visit  ..."  Now  Rosaleen's 
hands  went  up  to  hide  her  face.  She  was  seeing  Deny  pulling  at 
his  chain,  wearying  of  it.  "And  what  can  I  do  ?"  broke  from  her. 

"You  can  go  away,  down  to  Folkestone,  for  instance,  give 
him  a  chance  of  getting  back  among  his  own  friends.  He  can 
pull  you  up  with  him,  later  on,  you  know.  But  he  has  got  to 
get  back  by  himself  first.  You  must  know  it  as  well  as  I  do, 
you  are  dragging  him  down." 

All  at  once  it  seemed  as  if  she  did  know  it,  and  had  known  it 
all  along.  She  put  her  arms  down,  and  her  face  went  down,  too. 
Hadn't  it  been  in  her  own  heart  this  long  time?  She  was  a 
drag  upon  him,  and  it  was  through  her  that  they  were  keeping 
him  out  of  Ranmore,  the  place  that  belonged  to  him,  that  he 
fitted;  from  the  stables,  and  the  horses  on  which  he  would  ride 
forth  in  his  pink  coat  to  the  meet,  from  the  woods  which  he 
would  stride  through  with  his  gun  on  his  shoulder,  from  the 
streams  that  were  his  to  whip  for  trout,  to  cast  the  fly,  from  the 
green  and  glory  of  Ranmore.  There,  amid  the  blue  mountains 
and  blue,  soft  sky  was  his  home,  and  it  was  she  that  stood 
between  him  and  its  beauty. 

She  lifted  her  head  again.  Lady  Carrie  had  taken  another 
piece  of  bread  and  butter.  She  had  an  idea  the  fight  was  over. 
She  had  not  meant  to  go  quite  so  far  when  she  came  here.  But 
it  would  be  a  very  good  thing  for  Deny  if  the  creature  would 
go  away  from  him  for  a  time.  It  was  a  nuisance  his  always 
wanting  to  get  back  to  her  for  lunch  or  dinner.  Deny  as  a  free 
lance  would  be  much  more  agreeable. 

310 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"You  say  I'm  standing  between  Derry  and  his  home,  between 
him  and  friends?" 

"Well!  you  don't  doubt  it,  do  you?  You  don't  really  think 
that  Mossy  Leon,  and  all  those  theatrical  people,  represent  the 
social  circle  to  which  Lord  Ranmore  belongs?" 

"I  hadn't  thought,"  Rosaleen  answered;  but  thought  looked 
out  now  from  her  mournful  eyes. 

"Well,  you  will  now,  and  do  the  right  thing,  I  am  sure." 
Lady  Carrie  rose,  her  manner  was  kindly  patronizing,  as  if 
she  were  patting  on  the  head  a  repentant  village  child.  "You 
will  not  go  on  standing  in  his  way." 

Rosaleen  rose,  too,  she  had  done  with  trying  to  hide  the  truth 
from  herself.  She  would  brave  the  full  blast  of  it.  He  had 
set  her  in  the  cool  breeze,  and  her  aching  feet  in  running 
water;  but  she  was  back  in  the  fire  now,  and  all  of  her  was 
burning. 

"It  was  you  he  ought  to  have  married,  it  was  you  he  would 
have  married  .  .  .  ?" 

Lady  Carrie,  waiting,  looking  at  her  curiously,  paused  at 
the  door. 

"He  ...  he  cared  for  you  before — before  Terence  died? 
Tell  me  that,  tell  me  the  truth  of  it.  I'll  go  away,"  she  cried, 
wildly,  for  the  pain  was  very  bad,  and  made  her  cry  out,  "if 
it's  you  that  he  cares  about,  and  me  that's  only  in  his  way.  .  .  ." 

It  was  not  in  Lady  Carrie  to  say  that  Derry  did  not  care  for 
her,  never  had  cared  for  her,  and  would  not  even  put  on  that 
little  affectation  of  caring,  that  is  called  flirtation.  She  could 
not,  if  she  would,  be  honest,  or  truthful  or  straightforward, 
and  of  compassion  she  knew  as  little  as  a  Liberal  Government 
of  economy.  She  only  laughed,  that  little,  low,  half-contemptu- 
ous laugh,  and  went  a  step  nearer  toward  the  door. 

"Tell  me,"  cried  Rosaleen,  obstructing  her  passage. 

"My  dear  woman,  why  do  you  want  to  know?  What  object 
does  it  serve?  It  was  you  he  married." 

"Tell  me." 

"Well,  if  you  must  have  it   ..." 

"Tell  me   ..." 

311 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Lady  Carrie's  eyes  gleamed  maliciously,  and  then  they 
dropped  modestly. 

She  hesitated,  but  it  was  only  to  bring  out  her  phrase  more 
effectively.  "I  think  you  ought  not  to  ask  me,  not  to  press  the 
question,  it  is  hardly  fair.  Supposing  Deny  does  cart  for  me, 
it  isn't  strange,  we  have  so  much  in  common.  And  there  are 
class  distinctions.  .  .  .  but  I  am  sure  he  is  trying  to  do  his 
duty.  You  must  not  fret  about  it." 

Rosaleen  turned  her  face  away,  like  a  wounded  animal;  but 
not  before  Carrie  had  seen  it 

Not  fret  about  ill  The  room  swayed,  and  the  day  went  black. 
Not  fret  about  it! 

Lady  Carrie  was  glad  to  get  out  of  the  flat,  and  into  her 
luxurious  victoria. 

"What  a  fool  the  woman  is,  what  a  fool!  Rumpelmayer's," 
she  directed  the  footman. 

Leaning  back,  on  her  way  to  that  fashionable  rendezvous, 
her  sunshade  open,  and  pleased  in  the  instinct  that  told  her  the 
purpose  of  her  visit  had  been  achieved,  she  said  to  herself  many 
times:  "What  a  fool!  she  cannot  even  see  that  her  husband  is 
in  love  with  her." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

ROSALEEN  knew  now  what  she  must  do  for  Deny. 
Purpose   dawned   on   her   as   she   lay,  with  her  face 
hidden,  in  the  swaying  room,  on  the  day  that  had  gone 
black.     It  had  a  gray,  cold   dawning,  that  Purpose   of   hers, 
very  slow.     There  would  be  no  sun  upon  it,  and  there  is  but 
gray  dawn  to  a  day  without  sun. 

Soon  she  grew  more  composed.  To  battle  with  the  waves 
in  a  desperate  death-struggle  makes  the  heart  tumultuous, 
shakes  the  courage,  hurries  into  irregularity  the  heaving,  painful 
breath.  But  now  the  struggle  with  the  waves  was  over,  and  she 
was  drifting  on  that  slow  tide  that  "moving  seems  asleep." 
Already  she  felt  that  she  had  parted  from  him  forever.  Hadn't 
he  made  his  great  sacrifice,  in  that  stone  church  at  Marylebone, 
and  wasn't  she  ready  to  make  hers  for  him  ?  She  was  standing 
in  his  way. 

When  she  knew  what  she  must  do,  she  did  it  so  well,  and 
so  bravely,  that  he  never  guessed  the  mistake  she  was  making, 
nor  where  it  was  leading  her.  Rosaleen  could  not  speak  to 
him  of  Lady  Carrie's  visit,  and  Lady  Carrie,  too,  avoided  telling 
him.  Therefore,  when  Rosaleen  told  him,  that  she  had  changed 
her  mind  about  Folkestone,  and  thought  the  visit  would  be  good 
for  both  herself  and  the  boy,  although  he  was  surprised,  he  had 
no  reason  for  thinking  she  was  disingenuous. 

When  she  pressed  upon  him  the  week  at  Ascot,  and  was 
quite  urgent  that  he  should  not  miss  the  chance  of  meeting  the 
Duchess,  he  could  question  her  conclusions,  but  he  could  not 
doubt  her  bona  fides.  He  argued  with  her  about  it,  but  perhaps 
the  argument  was  a  little  half-hearted.  It  was  going  to  be  an 
exceptional  Ascot. 

"But  you'll  be  dull  at  the  seaside  without  me!" 

313 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Not  with  Sonny,  and  the  needlework,  and  I  don't  know 
what  besides." 

"Well,  it's  brighter  you're  looking  this  morning,  anyway. 
I  believe  it  is  at  the  prospect  of  getting  rid  of  me.  Now,  tell 
me,  is  that  the  way  of  it?" 

She  was  feeling  brighter.  Already  she  was  in  the  calm  of 
the  slow-moving  tide. 

"I  am  glad  you  are  going  to  have  the  pleasure  of  the  visit." 

"I'm  not  at  all  so  sure  I  am  going.  I  don't  like  seeing  you  so 
happy  in  your  mind.  Is  it  a  tete-a-tete  with  Mossy  you  're  pro- 
jecting ?  Have  you  invited  him  to  come  down  with  you  ?  Or  is  it 
thinking  of  Mr.  Nat  Simons  you  are  after,  and  his  opinion  that 
you'd  be  an  ornament  to  the  stage?"  He  had  the  Irishman's 
love  of  lighj-hearted  banter,  and  Mossy's  admiration  was  a 
good  peg  upon  which  to  hang  it. 

She  could  smile  at  him,  perhaps  it  was  not  a  very  gay  smile. 

"It's  a  grand  time  you'll  be  having,  surely,"  she  said. 

"It  would  be  grander  if  you  were  coming  with  me." 

"But  the  Duchess  would  rather  be  seeing  you  alone." 

"Not  she!  And  who  is  to  say  Margaret  will  be  there?  I 
don't  seem  to  call  to  mind  hearing  of  her  staying  at  the 
Brinmores." 

Margaret's  comings  and  goings  had  been  freely  discussed 
between  him  and  Terence  in  the  old  days.  Terence  always 
knew  where  his  sister  was  to  be  found,  and  the  two  were  never 
very  long  apart. 

"I  don't  recollect  the  name  at  all." 

"Well,  maybe  she'll  be  there,  all  the  same." 

"And  you're  sure  you'll  not  be  missing  me?" 

The  more  he  queried  and  doubted,  and  seemed  as  if  he  were 
loath  to  part  with  her,  the  nearer  the  dark  day  of  her  purpose 
reached  to  its  meridian.  She  was  keeping  him  from  his  natural 
pursuits  and  friends,  and  the  ache  at  his  heart  for  Ranmore, 
was  one  she  had  been  making  worse  by  pressing  too  closely 
against  his  side.  She  had  been  blind,  struggling  with  the  salt 
spray  in  her  mouth  and  eyes — now  she  was  in  the  calm.  Of 
course  Terence's  mother,  and  Terence's  sister,  would  have 

314 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

been  willing  that  Deny  should  be  back  there  among  them. 
He  was  of  their  own  people.  It  was  she,  O'Daly's  daughter, 
that  they  could  not  stomach.  Now  and  again  the  sobbing 
breath  woke  again  convulsively,  for  she  loved  him  so  terribly, 
and  wanted  neither  grandeur  nor  riches,  but  only  to  be  near 
him.  Yet  she  was  strong  that  he  should  neither  see,  nor  guess 
that  she  suffered.  He  must  get  back  to  Ranmore.  Somehow 
or  other,  the  thought  that  he  cared  for  Lady  Carrie,  or  she  for 
him,  sank  now  into  the  background  of  her  mind.  It  was  as 
if,  so  near  to  the  eternal  verities,  some  faint  light  was  shed  upon 
her  passage,  to  give  her  heart  peace.  It  was  to  Ranmore  and 
his  people  she  was  giving  him  up;  there  he  would  be  when  she  had 
taken  herself  out  of  his  way,  not  in  London  with  Lady  Carrie. 

In  those  few  days  that  intervened  between  Lady  Carrie's 
visit  and  the  Ascot  Monday,  Rosaleen  never  faltered,  although 
Derry  was  not  of  the  same  mind  for  two  hours  together.  Some 
instinct  must  have  warned  him,  although  afterward  he  said  he 
had  had  no  instinct  at  all.  Only  he  loved  her,  and  was  reluctant 
to  part  with  her  even  for  a  few  days.  It  was  the  Folkestone 
scheme  that  reconciled  him. 

"I'll  be  picturing  you  playing  there  with  the  boy,  and  the 
wind  ruffling  up  his  curls.  I'll  be  seeing  the  brown  coming 
over  that  white  skin  of  yours,  and  the  sun  kissing  you  for  me. 
But  I'd  rather  be  doing  it  myself  ..."  And  the  action 
followed  swiftly  on  the  word. 

He  went  down  with  them  to  Folkestone  on  the  Saturday 
before  he  was  due  at  the  Brinmores.  He  settled  them  in  com- 
fortable rooms,  a  bedroom  for  Rosaleen  and  one  for  nurse  and 
baby,  a  fine  airy  sitting-room  with  a  great  window  looking  right 
on  to  the  sea.  He  told  the  landlady,  who  was  quite  carried 
away  by  his  title  and  his  Irish  accent,  that  they  were  "two 
treasures  he  was  leaving  in  her  charge."  She  was  to  mind  and 
take  care  of  them.  No  lodger  had  ever  tipped  her  before. 
This  open-handed  gentleman  pressed  a  five-pound  note  upon 
her. 

"Now  that's  to  buy  yourself  a  new  bonnet,  and  grand  you'll 
be  looking  in  it,  and  I'll  come  down  myself  to  see.  .  .  ." 

315 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Mrs.  Peach  was  buxom,  and  not  long  past  fifty.  She  bridled 
and  smiled,  and  thought  this  was  really  a  fine  appreciative 
gentleman. 

"But  mind  about  my  treasures,  even  when  you've  got  that 
new  bonnet  on  your  head.  From  the  moment  I  set  eyes  on  you, 
I  said,  'that  woman's  a  treasure  herself,  and  she'll  guard  mine 
for  me.'  I  wouldn't  so  much  as  look  at  any  other  rooms  once 
I  saw  you  open  the  door  to  me." 

Of  course  she  vowed  she  would  do  her  best.  When  Rosaleen 
went  into  the  bedroom  to  help  nurse  with  the  unpacking,  Mrs. 
Peach  told  stories  of  other  lodgers  who  had  come  there,  recover- 
ing from  illness,  or  what  she  was  pleased  to  call  "their  neural- 
itis,"  and  had  "picked  up  wonderful."  She  promised  milk 
puddings,  and  plenty  of  new  laid  eggs. 

"I  hold  by  eggs  myself,  beat  up  with  brandy  for  the  lady." 
And  she  spoke  of  junket  and  boiled  fowls,  and  her  skill  as  a 
cook. 

Deny  stayed  that  night.  There  was  an  afternoon  train  on 
Sunday  that  would  take  him  to  town  in  plenty  of  time.  The 
Idoging-house  was  served  by  a  maid-of-all-work,  and  a  foreign 
butler,  or  footman,  waiter  or  boy,  who  completed  the  household. 
This  nondescript  person  was  a  Swiss,  had  come  to  England  to 
learn  the  language,  and  was  intent  only  on  achieving  his  object 
and  getting  home.  But  he  was  one  with  the  rest  of  them  in 
his  anxiety  to  serve  Deny,  and  to  wait  upon  his  lady.  Deny 's 
five  shillings  made  him  say  that  he  would  be  glad  to  carry  up 
the  meals,  and  the  salt  water  for  nurse.  Sunday  morning 
he  lugged  out  the  perambulator  for  that  bonny,  gold-haired 
baby  boy,  who  held  out  friendly  arms,  and  laughed  at  him  out 
of  the  loveliest  pair  of  blue  eyes  he  had  ever  seen. 

Deny  was  out  on  the  Leas  with  them  both,  all  that  mag- 
nificent Sunday  morning.  The  sun  was  high  in  the  heaven, 
and  the  wind  was  playful,  almost  sweeping  Sonny  off  his  feet, 
sometimes,  when,  the  perambulator  discarded,  he  walked  or 
gambolled  on  the  grass  beside  them. 

"It's  health  that's  blowing  in  to  you;  and  it's  roses  instead 
of  lilies  I'll  be  finding  in  your  cheeks  when  I  come  back.  I'm 

316 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

glad  I  persuaded  you  down  here.  If  it  wasn  't  for  Lady  Carrie, 
and  having  promised  her,  and  all  that,  I'd  be  stopping  myself. 
It  was  only  air  I  was  needing."  A  word  would  have  kept  him. 

She  reminded  him,  instead,  of  the  possibility  of  seeing  the 
Duchess.  There  was  no  doubt  that  was  in  his  mind,  for  quite 
a  flush  came  into  his  cheek. 

"Ah!  I'd  like  to  see  Margaret,"  was  all  he  said.  But  she 
knew  now  how  deep  it  was  in  him,  that  longing  for  reconciliation. 

She  had  not  faltered  in  London  when  she  had  been  looking 
out  his  racquets  and  tennis-shoes,  mending  his  socks  and  under- 
clothes, pressing  and  packing  and  preparing.  She  had  left 
everything  ready  for  him  at  the  flat.  She  did  not  falter  when 
she  walked  with  him  to  the  station  in  the  afternoon. 

The  wind  had  got  up  since  the  morning,  and  now  it  whistled 
about  their  ears.  The  sun  had  gone,  and  in  the  station  it  was 
cold  and  draughty.  The  train  stood  there  waiting,  but  already 
steam  was  up,  and  the  engine  was  shrieking.  Deny  was  not 
the  man  to  catch  a  train  with  too  much  time  to  spare.  He 
jumped  in  almost  as  it  was  going,  his  last  kiss  being  taken  in  a 
hurry;  he  called  to  her  out  of  the  window  to  get  along  home  as 
quickly  as  she  could,  not  to  take  cold.  That  was  the  last  she 
saw  of  him,  his  face  at  the  window.  She  watched  the  train 
until  it  rounded  the  corner,  and  was  out  of  sight. 

She  walked  back  very  slowly.  How  good  he  had  been  to  her, 
from  first  to  last!  He  had  married  her  out  of  pity,  and  loyalty 
to  Terence,  with  the  desire  to  shield  his  memory.  He  had 
treated  her  as  the  "greatest  lady  in  the  land."  The  phraseology 
of  Rosaleen's  mind  was  all  in  that  simple  sentence.  And  the 
boy — Terence 's  boy — he  had  taken,  too,  into  his  great  heart,  and 
he  loved  him.  Rosaleen  knew  Derry  loved  the  boy,  who  grew 
more  like  Terence  every  day,  he  had  already  the  same  glint  of 
laughter  in  his  blue  eyes,  the  same  beguiling  ways.  He  was 
a  Ranmore  sure  enough.  But  what  was  she  but  O 'Daly's 
daughter,  with  no  tie  to  the  house  but  gratitude  and  service? 
Yet  it  was  she  who  was  standing  between  Derry  and  his  people 
and  the  home  of  all  of  them. 

Her  thoughts  flew  to  Ranmore,  the  great  gray  pile  at  the  foot 
21  317 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

of  the  blue  mountains,  the  vast  woods,  and  the  lake  in  the  midst 
of  them,  the  wild  waving  grass,  and  the  cry  of  the  corn-crake, 
in  the  wood,  the  soft  air  that  had  whispered  of  love  and  happi- 
ness, singing  in  the  tree-tops.  This  wind  here  that  tore  about 
her  ears  as  she  walked  slowly  from  the  station  to  her  lodgings, 
shrieking  from  the  sea,  was  not  more  different  from  the  soft 
wind  that  blew  at  Ranmore,  than  herself  from  the  Ranmores. 
It  was  a  peasant  she  was;  she  had  read  the  word  in  Carrie's 
eyes.  Yes,  Derry  had  married  her  out  of  pity,  out  of  infinite 
great  chivalry.  Was  the  sacrifice  to  be  only  on  his  side?  She 
would  give  her  life  for  him,  she  would  lie  down  that  he  might 
walk  over  her  body,  but  what  she  was  going  to  do  was  the 
greatest  sacrifice  of  all. 

She  was  going  to  leave  him.  Then  the  Duchess  would  open 
her  doors  to  him,  and  Lady  Ranmore  her  heart.  Then  he 
would  come  into  his  kingdom,  and  be  the  greatest  king  of  them 
all,  over  there  at  Ranmore,  where  his  people's  people  lived, 
whose  servants  she  and  her  father  had  been. 

Because  of  the  wild  strain  of  superstition  in  her,  and  the 
deeper  one  of  melancholy,  it  seemed  that  it  was  she  who  had 
brought  the  ill-luck  upon  them  all,  first  upon  Terence,  now 
upon  Derry.  It  was  in  little  Terence's  light,  too,  she  was 
standing.  She  saw  the  flat  in  Westminster  through  Lady 
Carrie 's  eyes,  and  she  knew  that  Derry  and  little  Terence  ought 
to  be  in  the  beloved  Irish  home  that  belonged  to  them.  Derry 
had  done  everything  for  her;  now  she  must  do  something  for 
him.  She  had  thought  and  thought,  but  the  thinking  done 
under  that  mountain  pile  of  accumulating  gratitude  was  dark 
thought,  bred  in  darkness.  She  could  not  see  Derry 's  love, 
she  only  saw  that  she  stood  in  his  way,  between  him  and 
Ranmore. 

He  was  on  his  way  to  Ascot,  to  Lady  Carrie,  but,  above  all, 
to  Ranmore.  She  never  doubted  that.  The  wind  told  her 
this  as  it  sang  in  her  ears,  and  the  pain  was  almost  deadened 
by  the  greatness  of  her  sacrifice.  She  would  rather  have  died 
than  separated  herself  from  him;  but  she  was  going  to  do  this 
that  he  might  be  free.  Could  she  but  have  died!  That  would 

318 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

have  been  the  greatest  boon  of  all,  to  have  been  able  to  die  for 
him.  Again  that  lantern-slide  scene  from  the  wilds  of  Siam 
came  back  to  her  mind,  and  the  great  Sacrifice  was  illumined 
before  her.  She  saw  Him  on  the  Cross.  Again  and  again  she 
had  gone  over  this,  and  could  bring  not  herself  to  it.  Once 
before,  in  the  most  awful,  the  most  terrible  of  situations,  she 
had  contemplated  suicide,  and  thought  wildly  of  the  still  lake 
on  Gabriel.  But  then  it  had  been  impossible,  the  life  in  her 
was  too  young  and  strong  to  be  quenched,  and  the  flesh  was 
weak.  Yet  she  would  have  left  him  that  way,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  a  pale  gleam  of  truth  that  threw  a  light  on  his  relations  with 
Lady  Carrie.  The  light  was  faint,  but  it  enabled  her  to  see. 
After  her  wild  cry,  and  the  answer  to  it,  that  now  rang  falsely 
in  her  ears,  she  had  not  doubted  but  that  love  and  Lady  Carrie 
were  incompatible.  She  did  not  reason,  she  knew.  She  would 
have  died  for  him,  if  it  had  been  necessary,  if  she  had  been  stand- 
ing between  him  and  a  woman  he  loved,  who  loved  him  even 
as  she  did.  Her  courage  would  have  held,  she  was  just  the 
woman  who  would  have  died  for  her  man,  but  her  fine  instincts 
told  her  that  he  could  not  care  for  such  a  one  as  Lady  Carrie. 
All  she  need  do,  therefore,  was  to  go  out  of  his  life,  to  disappear, 
and  leave  him  to  go  free.  It  was  only  freedom  he  needed. 
More  than  once,  in  the  flat,  when  she  had  seen  him  stretch 
out  his  long  arms,  widen  his  great  shoulders,  and  throw  back 
his  head,  she  seemed  to  hear  him  calling  out  for  freedom.  She 
knew  when  he  talked  of  air,  and  exercise  and  the  cramped 
London  flat,  it  was  really  of  Ranmore  he  was  thinking.  He 
would  be  back  there  soon  now,  whether  he  met  the  Duchess  at 
Ascot  or  not.  No  longer  would  a  barrier  of  shame  stand 
between  Lord  Ranmore  and  the  home  of  his  ancestors.  The 
peasant- wife  that  he  had  taken  out  of  pity  would  be  gone. 

There  was  no  hurry.  She  had  a  whole  week  before  her.  All 
her  plans  had  been  laid  before  she  left  London.  Daily  she 
saw  the  roses  deepen  on  the  baby's  cheeks,  and  the  brown  on 
his  sturdy  limbs.  The  blue  of  his  eyes  was  a  thing  to  wonder 
at,  and  it  seemed  as  if  a  bloom  came  over  him,  such  a  ripening 
and  sun-glow  of  health  was  his. 

319 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"It's  meself  that  will  be  sending  them  a  fine  present,"  she 
thought,  when  she  watched  him  digging  in  the  sands  in  the 
morning  with  his  hat  off,  his  red-gold  head  glistening,  the  curls 
lying  wet,  his  feet  and  legs  bare,  and  his  prattle  never  ceasing. 
Not  a  child  on  the  sands  came  near  him  for  looks,  he  was  a 
king  among  the  others.  In  the  afternoons,  in  the  beautiful 
white  frocks  her  hands  had  worked  for  him,  his  white  socks  and 
white  shoes,  he  would  run  about  on  the  grass  of  the  Leas,  and 
again  he  was  beyond  compare.  Oh!  it  was  a  fine  present  she 
was  sending  them. 

There  would  be  a  letter  coming  to  her  from  Ascot.  She 
could  wait  for  that.  Please  God  it  would  tell  her  the  Duchess 
was  there,  and  that  Deny  was  reconciled  to  her.  The  letter 
came,  more  than  one  letter  came,  but  it  seemed  the  Duchess 
was  still  at  Dunstans.  Surely,  therefore,  Rosaleen  must  send 
her  a  peace-offering.  All  that  week  she  lay  awake  at  nights, 
and  the  harsh  wind  shrieked  and  howled  at  the  bedroom  window. 
But  when  she  closed  her  eyes,  or  drifted  into  light  half-sleep, 
she  heard  the  soft  winds  of  Ranmore  soughing  in  the  trees. 

It  was  to  the  Duchess  she  would  send  Terence's  son.  The 
Duchess  had  no  children  of  her  own;  she  would  cherish  her 
brother's  boy,  if  his  mother,  that  was  the  shame  of  them  both, 
of  all  of  them,  were  out  of  the  way.  Rosaleen  was  slow  with 
her  pen,  but  she  would  have  to  write  to  the  Duchess.  After- 
wards she  would  write  to  Deny.  Then  she  could  go  away  and 
trouble  none  of  them  ever  again. 

The  landlady  had  been  as  good  as  her  words,  Rosaleen 's 
appetite  was  tempted  with  rice  puddings  and  junket,  new-laid 
eggs  and  tender  chickens.  The  boy,  waxing  strong  and  sturdy, 
was  promoted  from  baby  food  to  eggs,  and  bread  and  butter, 
to  a  taste  of  minced  chicken,  and  the  junket  he  despised,  and 
dispersed  about  the  floor  and  the  table  with  his  unsteady  spoon. 
But  the  roses  that  were  to  bloom  in  Rosaleen 's  cheeks  found  no 
soil  to  suit  them. 

The  Swiss  waiter  and  the  maid-of-all-work  confided  in  each 
other,  and  Terence's  nurse  talked  it  over  with  the  landlady, 
and  all  of  them  were  agreed  that  his  lordship  would  be  disap- 

320 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

pointed,  when  he  came  down  at  the  end  of  the  week,  to  see  her 
ladyship  as  pale  as  ever. 

"She  takes  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing,  of  the  good  meals 
you  send  up,  Mrs.  Peach.  I  don't  hold  with  waste,  nor  yet 
with  extravagance,  but  I'd  try  her  with  something  different  to 
the  chicken,  a  sole,  now,  or  a  sweetbread.  It's  my  belief  she 
is  fretting  after  him.  The  baby  comes  second  to  him — don't 
you,  my  bonny  boy?"  The  nurse  snatched  him  up  and  gave 
him  the  meed  of  kisses  his  mother  was  supposed  to  deny  him, 
and  he  clutched  at  her  hair,  and  did  not  seem  the  least  impressed 
by  the  secondary  position  of  which  he  was  told.  "She  worships 
the  very  ground  his  lordship  treads  upon,  and  this  is  the  first 
time  they  have  been  separated;  I  heard  him  say  so.  I  should 
try  her  with  the  sweetbread.  You  might  fry  it  in  breadcrumbs, 
Mrs.  Peach,  and  I'll  give  him  a  taste  of  it  with  his  gravy.  He 
enjoys  his  meals,  don't  you,  my  precious  ?  You  never  saw  such 
an  appetite  as  the  sea  gives  him!" 

Mrs.  Peach  tried  the  sweetbread,  and  the  sole,  duck,  and  green 
peas  and  the  tenderest  loin  of  lamb  which  the  butcher  in  the 
High  Street  could  find.  Yet  Rosaleen's  color  did  not  improve 
as  the  week  wore  on,  and  her  eyes  were  sad  to  see.  She  sent 
Deny  the  little  daily  notes  for  which  he  had  asked,  it  was  easy 
to  fill  them.  But  her  letter  to  the  Duchess,  and  the  other  one 
that  she  must  write  to  him,  were  more  difficult.  She  went  to 
bed,  night  after  night,  with  the  task  still  before  her,  to  lie  awake 
and  listen  to  the  wind;  to  lie  awake  and  think  of  Deny,  never 
again  to  lie  warm  and  sleepy  by  her  side.  Sometimes  a  dumb 
panic  of  desolation  seized  and  shook  her,  at  the  thought  that 
he  would  lie  by  her  side  no  more.  But  she  would  force  herself 
from  such  thoughts  to  follow  him,  in  his  freedom,  back  to  Ran- 
more.  She  could  smell  the  woods  sometimes,  as  well  as  hear 
the  sough  of  the  soft  winds.  The  Duchess  would  help  him  to 
get  there.  Everybody  knew  it  was  the  good  heart  the  Duchess 
had.  Everyone  knew,  too,  how  greatly  she  had  loved  her 
brother,  and  that  it  was  half  her  life  he  had  taken  with  him 
that  day  when  the  horse  threw  him.  The  Duchess  was  not  at 
the  Brinmores',  as  Deny  and  she  had  hoped,  and  Lady  Carrie 

321 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

had  promised,  so  it  was  to  Dunstans  Rosaleen  must  send  her 
present.  It  was  from  Terence,  this  gift  she  was  sending  to 
buy  kindness  for  Deny.  It  was  for  Terence  he  had  done  it  all, 
and  out  of  pity.  But  how  could  she  tell  how  it  came  about 
that  she  had  this  gift  to  bestow?  There  were  no  words  at  her 
command  for  telling,  but  no  words  would  be  needed;  they  had 
but  to  look  at  him;  every  day  the  likeness  grew. 

The  letter  got  itself  written  at  last,  and  bewildered  the  Duchess 
when  she  received  it,  up  there  at  Dunstans. 

"YouR  GRACE, — Nurse  is  taking  you  this  letter,  and  my 
beautiful  boy.  I  want  you  to  have  him.  He  is  a  red  Ranmore, 
and  it's  proud  of  him  you'll  all  be,  if  you  have  him  to  yourself, 
without  me.  I've  wanted  to  write  to  Lady  Ranmore,  and  tell  her 
that  I  wasn't  ungrateful  like  I  must  have  seemed  to  her  when  I 
went  away.  My  heart  was  just  full  of  her  goodness,  and  all  of 
your  goodness  to  me.  I  haven't  forgot  she  kept  me  all  those 
years  in  the  convent,  and  let  me  come  back  to  wait  on  her  at 
Ranmore.  I  would  have  liked  to  stay  and  wait  on  her  for  ever. 
Won't  you  let  her  know  that,  and  that  I'm  not  ungrateful  ?  I'm 
keeping  her  right  in  my  heart  for  ever  and  ever,  and  the  sorrow 
of  her.  It's  meself  that's  known  sorrow,  too.  And  I've  never 
forgotten  dear,  beautiful  Ranmore,  the  woods,  and  the  coppice, 
and  down  where  the  little  cascade  runs,  where  Terence  found  the 
heron  with  the  broken  wing,  you'll  mind  the  day.  I  know  you'll 
never  tell  the  darlint  that  his  mother  was  not  a  lady,  only  O'Daly's 
daughter,  him  that  was  murdered  for  collecting  the  rents. 
Derry  only  married  me  out  of  pity.  I  can't  tell  you  the  goodness 
of  him,  and  how  he  loves  you  all,  and  wants  you  to  care  for  him 
again.  It  was  me  that  was  standing  in  the  way.  But  I'm 
never  going  to  see  him,  or  any  of  you  again;  it's  his  freedom  I'm 
giving  him  back.  How  can  I  pray  you  to  care  for  my  little 
Sonny,  so  that  he  doesn't  ever  miss  that  he  has  no  mother,  that 
loved  him  well  enough  to  give  him  up,  so  he  might  come  into 
his  own.  .  ',  ." 

It  was  not  all,  nor  half  she  had  meant  to  say;  but  there  was 
Derry  to  write  to  as  well;  and  already  it  was  Thursday.  Derry 
seemed  to  be  having  a  great  time  up  there  with  the  racing,  and 

322 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

it  was  only  hurried  notes  he  sent  her,  after  all.  He  wrote  that 
there  was  so  much  to  do,  and  there  were  so  many  people  to  do 
it  with  he  was  never  alone,  he  never  had  a  minute  to  write,  he 
would  tell  her  all  about  everything  when  he  saw  her.  He  was 
"ever  and  always."  But  she  read,  through  the  hurry  of  the 
letters,  that  he  was  happy,  and  enjoying  himself.  They  were 
glad  to  have  him  among  them,  no  doubt.  Now  she  had  no 
jealousy  of  Lady  Carrie,  who  was  of  the  party,  but  whom  he 
did  not  mention. 

On  Friday,  instead  of  a  letter,  there  came  quite  a  long  telegram, 
answer  paid.  It  was  brought  to  her  when  her  letter  to  the 
Duchess  was  finished,  and  lay  ready  for  nurse  to  take  with  her 
to  Dunstans  to-morrow.  She  had  waited  to  part  from  the  boy 
until  the  last  possible  moment. 

"Do  you  mind  very  much  if  I  stay  week-end  answer  frankly 
question  of  racquet  match  Brinmore  pressing  been  so  hospitable 
don't  like  to  refuse  longing  for  you  and  will  come  Folkestone  in 
a  moment  if  you  say  the  word  otherwise  flat  on  Monday." 

She  knew  he  would  come  if  she  sent  to  him.  There  had 
never  been  a  flaw  in  his  chivalry,  or  his  desire  to  be  good  to  her. 
Now  it  was  racquets  he  was  playing,  as  he  did  in  Siam;  Derry 
loved  playing  games.  She  saw  him  with  his  coat  off,  the  silk  shirt 
clinging  to  his  wide  shoulders  and  deep  chest,  the  head  thrown 
back,  and  the  swing  of  the  racquet.  And  to  go  back  to  the  dull 
flat  instead,  wearing  out  long  days  watching  her  mend  his  socks, 
as  Lady  Carrie  had  said,  with  no  alternative  but  Carrie's  drawing- 
room  or  Mossy 's  club!  Rosaleen  was  long  past  hesitation. 

"Don't  hurry  back  on  any  account.  Leaving  Folkestone 
Saturday  Letter  follows." 

"Letter  follows."  That  was  the  trouble;  it  had  to  be  written. 
She  could  not  write  coldly,  yet  she  must  not  let  him  see  that  it 
was  her  heart  she  was  tearing  out  by  the  roots  to  give  him. 

If  she  had  written  her  letter  to  the  Duchess  a  dozen  times, 
it  was  fifty  times  she  tore  up  the  sheet  that  held  her  trembling 
last  lines  to  Deny. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

DERRY  enjoyed  the  racing,  and  the  society  of  men 
of  his  own  breed.  He  played  in  a  cricket  match  on 
Saturday,  and  on  Sunday  he  and  Brinmore  had 
engaged  Captain  Foster  and  Major  Lester  at  racquets.  They 
were  the  runners-up  for  the  Military  Cup  two  years  ago,  but 
he  and  Brinmore  had  managed  to  give  them  a  game.  Then 
again  he  was  no  ascetic.  He  saw  baccarat  played,  for  the  first 
time,  and,  courageous  ignorance  having  stood  him  in  good  stead, 
he  had  let  his  stake  accumulate  in  a  run  of  fourteen  against  the 
syndicate  bank.  He  won  over  £200.  There  were  lavish  tips 
for  everybody;  there  was  £100  for  Carrie,  who  demurred  but 
accepted,  and  there  was  j£ioo  for  him  to  take  home  to  Rosaleen. 
They  would  have  a  week  together  at  Goodwood.  He  traveled 
back  to  town  with  Major  Lester,  who  was  a  married  man  too. 
Major  Lester  and  he  thought  it  would  be  a  good  idea  to  share 
a  little  cottage  he  knew  of,  two  miles  from  Chichester.  They 
planned  it  all  out,  and  what  the  whole  thing  would  cost.  Major 
Lester  had  done  it  before,  and  for  under  £50  had  included  a 
dog-cart.  There  was  room  for  two  dog-carts  in  the  stable 
attached  to  the  cottage,  he  was  almost  sure. 

Then  Major  Lester  had  spoken  of  his  wife,  and  of  what  a 
good  "pal"  she  was,  adding  that  anyone  could  get  on  with  her. 
And  Deny  had  certainly  not  been  backward  in  talking  of 
Rosaleen.  They  agreed  that,  although  the  Brinmores  had  a 
fine  place,  and  had  "done"  them  magnificently,  it  was  a  pity 
they  made  a  habit  of  not  asking  husband  and  wife  together. 
All  the  couples  had  been  disconnected,  as  it  were,  thrown  together 
haphazard.  Derry  had  not  been  as  attentive  to  Lady  Carrie, 
nor  the  Major  to  Mrs.  McDougall,  as  had  been  expected  of 
them.  It  had  resolved  itself  into  something  of  a  man's  party. 

324 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Comparing  notes  in  the  train,  they  said  Brinmore  was  a  good 
fellow  and  Bet  was  all  right;  but  the  other  women  were  rather 
a  nuisance.  Major  Lester  carried  his  wife's  portrait  cut  into 
a  circle,  and  pasted  into  the  back  of  his  watch.  Deny  thought 
it  a  splendid  idea;  he  would  make  Rosaleen  sit  for  her  likeness 
the  first  thing  he  got  back.  Secretly  he  thought  Major  Lester's 
Nell  was  rather  plain,  and  would  have  given  anything  to  have 
been  able  to  exhibit  his  beautiful  Rosaleen.  It  was  arranged 
that  Mrs.  Lester  should  call  at  the  flat,  and  the  four  of  them 
would  have  a  little  dinner  together  somewhere,  and  talk  about 
the  Goodwood  scheme. 

They  were  only  an  hour  getting  up  from  Ascot,  and  the  time 
seemed  quite  short.  But,  once  they  were  at  Waterloo,  Deny 
did  not  linger  in  saying  good-bye  to  Major  Lester.  He  wanted 
to  tell  Rosaleen  all  about  everything,  to  see  her,  to  have  her  in 
his  arms.  Now  it  seemed  to  him  that  they  had  been  separated 
for  a  long  time. 

He  had  no  foreboding.  Why  should  he  have?  There  had 
never  been  any  angry  word  between  them;  he  had  never  looked 
at  another  woman  in  admiration,  or  with  anything  but  an 
indifferent  eye.  Rosaleen  had  been  his  first  love,  was  and  would 
be  his  last,  and  if  she  was  dwelling  sometimes  on  her  memories 
of  Terence,  and  the  old  cloud,  he  put  the  thought  firmly  from 
him.  Terence  was  dead,  and  he  was  alive,  and  loving  her 
always.  Now  he  was  on  his  way  home. 

He  was  almost  too  impatient  to  collect  his  luggage  at  the 
terminus.  In  his  light  clothes,  standing  on  the  platform,  he 
looked  bigger  than  ever.  He  was  imperious  and  cheerful  in 
his  impatience;  and  the  porters  helped  him  with  a  will.  He 
told  the  taxi-cab  driver  to  go  as  fast  as  "they'd  let  him." 

It  was  June,  and  although  he  was  no  Londoner,  London  had 
its  charm  for  him  this  day.  The  Parks  flung  out  their  wealth 
of  green,  and  the  trees  in  the  Squares  were  bright  with  early 
summer,  the  leaves  were  still  young,  radiant  as  they  met  the  sun. 
He  had  said  that  London  trees  were  dusty  and  dreary,  and  he 
felt  no  companionship  with  them  as  he  did  with  the  trees  in 
Ranmore  woods,  but  to-day  there  was  no  dust  upon  them,  and 

325 


they  sparkled  as  the  light  wind  sported  with  their  young  green 
in  the  sun,  rippling  shadows  and  light;  the  sky  was  blue,  with 
white  clouds  floating.  Ah!  it  was  good  even  in  London  to-day, 
with  Rosaleen  at  the  end  of  the  drive. 

He  left  the  commissionaire  to  pay  the  cab,  and  carry  up  the 
portmanteau.  He  was  even  too  impatient  for  the  lift.  His 
long  legs  could  scale  the  stairs  more  quickly  than  the  slow  lift 
could  mount.  Possibly  he  expected  Rosaleen  to  have  met  him 
at  the  station.  He  had  wired  what  time  he  would  be  home; 
but  not  what  time  the  train  arrived.  Surely  she  would  meet 
him  at  the  door.  She  would  have  the  stars  in  her  eyes  for  his 
greeting,  and  the  flush  under  her  white  skin. 

But,  when  he  found  the  door  of  the  flat  closed,  and,  only 
after  prolonged  ringing,  he  heard  the  dilatory  step  of  the  parlor- 
maid, then  the  slow  unchaining  of  the  door,  he  did  not  know 
what  to  think.  Had  she  not  expected  him,  and  where  was  Lady 
Ranmore,  and  had  his  wire  not  arrived?  Half  a  dozen  other 
questions  were  poured  out  at  once.  The  dishevelled  parlor- 
maid was  rather  flustered  by  them.  Deny  pushed  past  her. 
The  rooms  were  half  covered  up;  they  were  disheveled,  like 
the  parlormaid,  and  more  than  a  stratum  of  dust  seemed  to 
have  settled  on  them.  They  had  the  air  of  being  unoccupied. 
The  blinds  were  drawn  down  and  no  sun  came  through  them. 
Surely  he  had  never  before  noticed  what  dull  rooms  they  were, 
and  how  close  and  stagnant.  Mary  brought  him  his  own  tele- 
gram, unopened,  from  the  hall  table,  and  a  few  letters.  There 
was  one  in  Rosaleen 's  small,  stiff  conventional  writing. 

"Of  course  she  is  staying  on,  she  has  never  got  my  wire.  I 
hope  I  haven't  missed  one  from  her.  I  hope  there  is  nothing 
wrong  with  her,  or  the  boy." 

His  hopes  and  fears  contended  while  he  was  opening  the 
letter.  Perhaps  a  sense,  or  premonition,  of  trouble  came  to 
him  then. 

He  rubbed  his  eyes  over  the  letter,  read  it,  re-read  it;  took  it 
over  to  the  window,  bringing  down  the  blind  in  dusty  disaster 
with  the  impatience  of  his  pull.  It  made  the  desolation  of  the 
room  more  complete. 

326 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"I'm  never  coming  back  to  the  flat  any  more.  I'm  leaving 
you  to-day  for  ever  and  ever.  You  're  quite  free  now.  It  •will  be 
no  use  looking  for  me,  but  perhape  you  won't  be  thinking  to  look. 
And  Sonny,  too,  I've  left.  It's  me  that  isn't  jit  to  be  with  either 
of  you,  or  at  Ranmore." 

A  more  desperate  failure  of  a  letter  could  hardly  have  been 
conceived.  It  told  him  no  hint,  explained  nothing,  although 
he  read  it  again  and  again,  wondering  what  was  the  matter  with 
his  head,  what  had  gone  out  of  the  world. 

"I'm  never  coming  back  to  the  flat  any  more.  I'm  leaving  you 
to-day  for  ever  and  ever." 

But  what  had  he  done  to  her,  and  where  had  she  gone?  It 
was  like  a  knock-down  blow  to  him,  it  stunned  him;  he  could 
not  collect  his  thoughts,  he  could  not  think  at  all.  He  called 
the  parlormaid.  By  now  Mary  had  her  own  grievances  to 
support.  She  did  not  know  he  was  coming  home  to-day,  she 
had  not  heard  a  word  from  the  mistress.  It  was  not  her  fault 
that  the  rooms  were  in  disorder,  and  nothing  was  prepared. 
She  wasn't  used  to  such  ways,  and  she  murmured  something 
about  "Irish."  She  exclaimed  over  the  window-blind  that  had 
come  down,  and  "supposed"  she  would  have  to  see  to  that,  too. 
Mary's  mental  attitude  might  be  described  as  "tantrum."  She 
was  a  good  servant,  and  had  been  caught  napping,  taken  by 
surprise.  Certainly  she  had  no  information  to  give  him,  and 
no  comfort. 

"Maybe  you're  wanting  lunch  at  home?"  she  asked  him, 
prepared  for  another  grievance.  He  only  stared  at  her;  he  had 
forgotten  she  was  there,  and  that  he  had  been  talking  to  her. 

"It's  me  that  isn't  fit  to  be  with  either  of  you."  He  had  for- 
gotten the  old  cloud.  Incredible,  impossible  things,  like  winged 
monsters,  flew  about,  and  tried  to  find  entrance  to  his  brain. 
Mossy.  How  came  Mossy  to  be  in  his  head  at  all  ?  But  once 
the  thought  of  Mossy  found  entrance,  it  could  not  be  got  rid  of, 
but  buzzed  and  stayed,  and  moved  him  to  action.  He  must 
get  rid  of  this  buzzing;  he  was  quite  dazed,  and  stumbled  in  his 
walk. 

327 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

The  portmanteau  was  still  in  the  hall.  Surely  it  must  have 
been  yesterday  he  flung  it  down  where  it  stood,  and  bolted  up 
the  stairs.  How  everything  had  altered  since  then!  It  could 
not  be  the  same  day.  The  commissionaire  looked  at  him 
wonderingly,  and  Deny  returned  the  stare.  He  did  not  know 
why,  but  everything  was  strange. 

"What  are  you  staring  at  me  for?"  he  asked,  dully. 

The  man  apologized,  he  thought  his  lordship  looked  at  him. 
Was  there  anything  he  could  do?  Deny  thought.  He  knew 
he  had  come  down  here  for  something,  now  he  had  forgotten 
what  it  was.  Oh!  of  course,  it  was  a  cab  he  wanted,  a 
fast  cab. 

Mossy  was  not  in  at  Grosvenor  Square.  The  very  polite 
butler,  who  was  quite  sure  Lord  Ranmore  had  been  drinking, 
reminded  him  politely  that  Mr.  Leon  very  seldom  was  at  home 
at  that  time.  He  was  quite  apologetic  in  mentioning  such  a 
possibility,  having  always  before  lived  in  the  best  families, 
but  he  thought  Mr.  Leon  might  be  at  his  office.  He  had  a 
habit  of  going  to  his  office. 

Deny  looked  at  him  as  if  he  did  not  hear  what  he  was  saying, 
and  redirected  his  cabman. 

In  Great  Quebec  Street  the  clerk  hesitated,  and  said  he 
believed  Mr.  Leon  had  gone  out  to  lunch.  He,  too,  thought 
Deny  had  taken  more  than  was  good  for  him,  for  his  eyes  looked 
strange,  and  his  voice  was  hurried  and  incoherent. 

"He  can't  be  out  to  lunch.  I  don't  believe  he  has  been  here 
at  all." 

"Oh,  yes,  milord,  he  was  here  quite  early.  We  have  the 
Jarndyce  case  coming  on;  he  may  have  gone  down  to  the 
Court." 

"I  don't  care  what  case  you've  got  on,  don't  stand  there 
talking.  Go  and  find  Mr.  Leon,  tell  him  I  must  see  him." 

The  clerk  knew  quite  well  that  Mossy  was  in  the  office,  but 
it  was  not  a  wholly  unusual  thing  for  a  distraught  client  to  rush 
in,  and  insist  upon  an  unwelcome  interview.  These  distraught 
clients  had  generally  to  be  eased  off  gradually,  the  managing 
clerk  seeing  them,  or  a  later  appointment  made,  or  the  writing 

328 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN- 

of  a  letter  suggested.  Seeing  Lord  Ranmore  so  unlike  himself, 
the  clerk  thought  he  had  better  gain  time.  He  asked  Deny  to 
take  a  seat,  and  he  would  make  inquiries.  Deny  was  much 
too  impatient  to  take  a  seat.  This  waiting-room  of  Mossy 's 
had  none  of  luxuriousness  of  the  upstairs  office.  There  were 
two  writing-tables,  four  chairs,  and  a  bookcase  with  gilt  wires, 
like  a  bird-cage.  He  was  offered  the  Daily  Telegraph.  He 
had  not  even  a  word  of  civility  for  the  courtesy. 

Fortunately  he  was  not  kept  waiting  more  than  a  minute. 

"Ranmore!  Lord  Ranmore!  Of  course  he  can  come  up. 
Not  quite  himself.  What  on  earth  do  you  mean?  Rubbish! 
Go  and  bring  him  up." 

"Deny,  old  chap!     Why,  Deny!" 

Mossy  Leon  was  struck  by  the  alteration  in  him,  by  the  gray 
pallor,  and  the  stupid,  half-dazed  look. 

"Where  has  she  gone?"  Deny  asked.     "Where  is  she?" 

"What's  the  matter?"  Mossy  would  not  notice  that  Deny 
had  not  shaken  hands  with  him.  He  rang  the  bell  that  stood 
on  the  office  table,  sharply.  "See  that  we  are  not  disturbed," 
he  said  to  the  clerk.  He  knew  there  was  something  wrong. 
Deny  sank  into  the  easy  chair;  he  looked  at  Mossy,  and  the  fly 
in  his  head  ceased  buzzing. 

"I'm  a  damned  fool,  I  think!"  said  Deny,  slowly. 

"Well,  that's  nothing  new,  is  it?"  But  Mossy  saw  it  was  no 
case  for  humor.  "Now,  don't  bother  to  talk,  you've  had  a 
shock  of  some  sort,  an  upset,  or  a  spill  ?  You  shall  tell  me  all 
about  it  in  a  few  minutes;  but  first  I  'm  going  to  mix  you  a  whisky- 
and-soda." 

Mossy  had  all  the  material  at  hand.  The  reticulated  Chip- 
pendale bookcase  held  more  than  books.  Deny  sat  in  the 
easy  chair,  and  watched  Mossy  take  the  Tantalus  out  of  the 
cupboard,  measure  the  whisky  into  a  wineglass,  then  press  the 
syphon  of  soda,  and  let  it  fizz  up.  Mossy 's  hand  was  quite 
steady.  Derry's  shook  when  he  took  the  glass  from  him. 

"Having  a  go  at  it  on  your  own;  last  night  or  this  morning?" 
Mossy  asked,  with  apparent  carelessness.  He  thought  Deny 
looked  awfully  bad.  "Nothing  wrong  at  home,  I  hope?" 

329 


.LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Deny  drank  off  the  whisky;  it  cleared  his  head  a  little.  It 
was  easier  to  clear  his  head  now  that  buzzing  had  ceased,  and 
Mossy  was  standing  opposite  him,  full  of  concern. 

"Well?" 

"Rosaleen  has  left  me.  She  has  left  me  for  ever,"  he  said, 
stupidly. 

The  words  sounded  incredible  in  the  room.  Mossy  stared 
at  him,  and  he  at  Mossy. 

"You  don't  believe  me?" 

"Pull  yourself  together.  What  do  you  mean?"  Mossy 
could  not  make  him  out;  he  looked  as  if  he  believed  what  he 
was  saying. 

"Rosaleen  has  left  me  .  .  .  she  says  she  is  never  coming 
back.  ..." 

It  was  so  absurd  and  incredible,  he  began  to  revive;  it  was 
impossible.  Even  before  Mossy  laughed,  he  saw,  as  clearly  as 
the  little  lawyer,  that  he  was  taking  matters  too  seriously,  that, 
whatever  was  the  matter,  he  had  only  to  see  her  .  .  .  Already 
he  was  ashamed  of  being  here,  ashamed  of  his  breakdown. 

"Never  coming  back!  Rats,  she's  devoted  to  you.  What 
was  the  row  about?  Pull  yourself  together,  man,  and  let  me 
hear  the  trouble.  What's  the  story?  You  gave  me  the  jumps, 
coming  in  like  that.  What  have  you  been  up  to?  I  thought 
you  were  at  Ascot.  Ethel  has  talked  about  leaving  me  half  a 
dozen  times;  whenever  she  doesn't  get  all  her  own  way,  in  fact, 
or  someone  sends  her  an  anonymous  letter,  or  any  little  thing 
like  that.  Who  is  the  woman?  Whatever  it  is,  we'll  explain 
it  away.  One  can  always  explain  things  away.  And,  if  not, 
a  bit  of  jewelry.  .  ;V.W 

But  he  remembered  of  whom  he  was  talking.  Jewelry  had 
no  charm  for  Rosaleen  Ranmore. 

"I  thought  there  was  something  seriously  wrong,  and  now  it 
turns  out  to  be  nothing  but  a  little  matrimonial  squabble.  You 
are  a  fellow!" 

Deny  began  to  think  he  had  attached  too  much  importance 
to  Rosaleen's  letter;  and  yet  he  was  still  bewildered  by  it. 

"I  came  home  this  morning  from  the  Brinmores'.  I  expected 

330 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

her  to  meet  me  at  the  station,  or  to  be  at  the  flat.  We've  never 
had  a  wry  word.  There  was  a  letter  there  to  say  she  was  not 
coming  back,  she  was  never  going  to  see  me  again." 

"But  she  knew  you  were  going  to  the  Brinmores',  I  suppose? 
That's  the  woman  Lady  Carrie  is  so  thick  with,  isn't  it? — a 
racing  woman  who  smokes  cigarettes,  and  dresses  in  tweeds. 
There  was  nothing  in  that?" 

"She  urged  me  to  go;  she  begged  me  to  go.  I've  a  telegram 
from  her  about  stopping  on,  she  said  I  wasn't  to  hurry." 

"Did  she  write  you  while  you  were  there?" 

"Nearly  every  day — only  a  line  or  two,  I  can't  make  it  out 
at  all." 

Mossy  couldn't  make  it  out  either,  although  he  made  light 
of  it,  and  pooh-poohed  its  being  serious.  After  a  certain  amount 
of  pressure,  Derry  showed  him  Rosaleen's  letter. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  it's  not  one  o'clock  yet.  We'll  go  out, 
and  get  a  bit  of  lunch,  and  I'll  'phone  the  stables  and  get  the 
car.  We'll  run  down  to  Folkestone  this  afternoon,  and  pick 
up  the  clue  there.  We  shall  hear  something.  She  can't  have 
disappeared,  and  the  boy,  too,  without  leaving  a  trace.  I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  if  you  found  her  just  where  you  left  her, 
and  some  devil  of  a  tale.  ..." 

Berry's  was  a  grateful  nature,  he  never  forgot  what  Mossy 
did  for  him  that  day.  The  whole  thing,  although  it  was  so 
inexplicable,  grew  so  much  more  bearable  when  it  was  borne 
in  company,  and  talked  over  from  every  point  of  view,  except 
a  really  serious  one.  Mossy  would  not  allow  that  there  was 
anything  but  a  temporary  misunderstanding,  brought  about 
he  knew  not  how,  but  bound  to  prove  as  simple  as  possible  to 
put  right  when  once  the  two  should  come  face  to  face.  And 
of  course  they  would  come  face  to  face,  probably  this  evening 
at  Folkestone. 

Derry  lunched  with  Mossy,  the  good  food  and  the  good  drink 
putting  heart  into  him.  They  drove  down  to  Folkestone  in 
Mossy's  fine  new  Charron,  a  non-stop  run.  Long  before  they 
had  reached  Ashford,  they  had  both  convinced  themselves,  and 
each  other,  that  Rosaleen  would  be  there  to  meet  them,  already, 

331 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

perhaps,  sorry  for  her  letter,  longing  to  give  the  explanation  they 
were  longing  to  hear.  So  sure  were  they,  that  they  decided  to 
wire  her  they  were  on  their  way.  But  they  reconsidered  it> 
for,  after  all,  they  would  get  there  as  soon  as  the  wire.  They 
ought  to  have  thought  of  telegraphing  before  they  left  London. 
Deny  grew  a  little  more  silent,  and  a  little  less  certain,  as  they 
drove  past  the  marshes.  But  then,  the  low  horizon,  and  flat 
country,  depressed  him;  he  said  if  he  couldn't  have  bog,  he'd 
have  mountain.  Derry  found  it  difficult  to  keep  up  his  spirits 
during  the  last  half-hour  of  the  journey,  but  Mossy  himself 
had  no  doubt.  Where  should  she  be  gone?" 

"The  Furnished  Apartments"  bill  in  the  window  of  the 
drawing-room  at  St.  Leonard's  Terrace,  drove  the  blood  from 
Derry's  face. 

"Do  you  see  it?"  he  asked  Mossy,  as  they  waited  for  Mrs. 
Peach  to  answer  the  bell. 

"They  always  put  the  notices  back,  a  week  before  the  rooms 
are  vacant,"  said  Mossy,  uneasily.  "Pull  that  damned  bell 
again!" 

Mrs.  Peach  herself  opened  the  door,  and  was  very  pleased 
indeed  to  see  his  lordship,  until  his  lordship  asked,  or  rather  the 
other  gentleman  asked  for  him,  whether  Lady  Ranmore  was 
still  there. 

"Still  here?  Oh,  no,  milord!  She  went  yesterday  afternoon. 
Baby  and  nurse  went  on  Saturday." 

"Didn't  they  go  together?"  Mossy  put  in. 

"No,  milord;  leastways,  mister."  She  did  not  know  to 
whom  she  was  talking,  but  led  the  way,  always  talking,  to  that 
drawing-room  upstairs,  where  Rosaleen  had  sat  in  the  long 
evenings,  and  thought  out  each  step  in  the  dreary  road  she  must 
travel. 

Mrs.  Peach  told  them  all  about  the  little  food  she  took,  and 
the  letters  she  was  always  writing,  "though  she  would  tear  them 
up  most  of  the  times.  Karl  told  me  she  used  enough  paper  to 
light  the  kitchen  fire.  ..." 

"You  haven't  got  any  of  those  torn-up  papers?"  Mossy  was 
quick  on  a  possible  clue. 

332 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"No,  sir;  they  came  in  handy  for  the  kitchen  fire." 

There  were  no  papers,  she  had  left  no  clue.  They  heard 
she  looked  pale,  and  always  paler,  though  the  baby  was  a  perfect 
picture.  Nurse  and  baby  had  gone  on  Saturday,  and  Lady 
Ranmore  had  seen  them  off.  Nurse  said  it  was  a  long  journey 
for  such  a  little  child.  .  .  .  Again  Mossy  interpolated  sharp 
questions.  Where  were  they  going?  How  far?  Did  she 
say  what  her  destination  was  to  be?  Was  it  Ireland  by  any 
chance  ? 

Mrs.  Peach  had  not  heard  where  it  was  nurse  was  going, 
but  she  did  happen  to  know  it  wasn't  Ireland — that  is,  if  you 
couldn't  get  to  Ireland  by  land?  She  had  heard  tell  you  could 
now  with  "these  new  wireless  telegraphems.  ..."  Mossy 
assured  her  she  was  mistaken,  but  could  not  help  thinking  it 
would  be  a  good  line  for  the  new  play. 

"For,  I  do  remember  nurse  saying  'Thank  goodness,  it  is 
only  a  train  journey,  for  the  sea  I  can't  abide,' "  Mrs.  Peach 
went  on. 

There  was  only  one  other  thing  she  said  that  arrested  Mossy's 
attention. 

"  W7herever  it  was  she  was  sending  him,  she  wasn't  expecting 
to  see  him  for  a  long  time,  for,  after  she  had  said  good-bye  to 
him,  she  came  back,  and  Anna  Maria,  who  went  in  with  the  hot 
water,  said  she  was  lying  on  the  bed,  and  crying,  crying  just  as 
if  her  heart  would  break."  ^ 

Derry  could  not  bear  to  hear  of  it;  he  got  up  and  walked 
about.  .  .  . 

"Let's  get  out  of  this,"  he  said  to  Mossy.  "There's  nothing 
more  to  be  learned  here.  Let's  get  out  of  it." 

Mossy  tried  to  hear  all  there  was  to  be  heard,  but  it  amounted 
to  nothing.  Lady  Ranmore  seemed  to  have  been  unhappy  all 
the  week,  Mrs.  Peach  now  scented  a  mystery  and  wanted  to  be 
part  of  it,  to  remember,  or  invent,  incident.  But  Derry  cut  it 
short;  there  was  nothing  to  be  learned  in  St.  Leonard's  Terrace. 

They  walked  around  to  the  Grand  Hotel,  quite  silent  now. 
Mossy  was  for  staying  the  night,  and  talking  things  over.  Derry 
said  he  should  get  back  to  London;  he  was  terribly  depressed. 
22  333 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

It  was  impossible  to  ask  the  chauffeur  to  do  the  return  journey, 
so  they  decided  to  go  by  train.  There  was  a  train  at  9.30  that 
would  land  them  before  midnight. 

They  dined  together  at  the  hotel,  and  still  Mossy  talked 
hopefully.  He  said: 

"It's  all  rot,  you  know,  people  don't  disappear.  The  world 
isn't  big  enough.  It's  only  a  question  of  a  day  or  two.  Some- 
body has  been  making  mischief.  Ten  to  one  it's  some  woman. 
I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  it  was  Ethel,  put  up  to  it  by  that 
infernal  Mrs.  Jobson.  What  does  Rosaleen  mean  by  '  not  fit '  ? 
It's  some  damned  bit  of  snobbishness,  you  mark  my  word. 
We'll  have  to  find  out  who  has  been  down  here,  and  what  they 
said  to  her." 

Derry  choked  over  his  dinner,  and  bit  into  his  cigar,  and  said 
shortly  that  Mossy  did  not  know  what  he  was  talking  about. 
Derry  was  seeing  Rosaleen  crying  on  her  bed;  he  did  not  see 
anything  else.  Over  again  he  would  recall  his  letters  from  Ascot 
to  her,  and  hers  to  him;  he  was  searching  into  his  conduct. 

When  they  got  to  London,  Mossy  would  not  let  him  go  back 
to  the  deserted  flat.  He  had  sent  a  wire  to  Ethel,  and  she  was 
waiting  up  for  them. 

Grosvenor  Square  was  alight  to  welcome  Lord  Ranmore, 
the  butler  and  footman  were  agog  about  the  mystery  that  was 
afoot.  Ethel  had  changed  her  dress  twice  since  dinner.  At 
first  she  thought  she  would  receive  him  in  grande  evening  tenue, 
but  afterward  she  had  decided  on  a  soft  crepe  de  Chine  tea-gown. 
Mossy  had  only  wired  "Ranmore  staying  the  night,  send  to  flat 
for  portmanteau." 

The  portmanteau  was  unpacked,  and  its  contents  neatly 
spread  out  by  the  time  they  arrived.  Mossy  kept  expensive 
servants,  and  saw  that  they  were  up  to  their  work. 

Ethel  was  effusive.  She  knew  nothing  of  what  brought  him 
here,  but  she  looked  forward  to  saying  carelessly  to  Mrs.  Jobson: 

"  Oh,  yes,  Lord  Ranmore;  he  is  staying  with  us,  you  know.   .    . " 

She  did  not  know  why  Mossy  was  bringing  him  home,  but 
she  was  careful  to  keep  on  the  diamond  tiara  in  which  she  had 
dined  in  solitary  state.  For  it  looked  well  with  the  crepe  de 

334 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Chine  tea-gown,  and  as  if  she  were  "going  on,"  after  she  had 
welcomed  him.  She  meant  to  say  to  Lord  Ranmore:  "I  don't 
think  I  shall  go  out  again  .  .  .  "  as  if  she  had  many  engage- 
ments, but  would  give  them  up  for  him. 

Mossy  brushed  all  that  away  impatiently. 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake,  keep  out  of  the  way,  and  don't  make 
speeches.  He's  had  a  nasty  shock,  and  I've  brought  him  here 
for  peace  and  quietness.  Leave  him  alone.  James,  take  his 
lordship  up  some  hot  water,  the  whiskey  and  a  lemon.  I'll 
come  up  after  you  in  ten  minutes,"  he  said  to  Deny. 

Mossy  would  have  passed  the  night  with  Deny.  But  Deny 
had  enough  sense  left  to  send  him  away,  after  exhausting  con- 
jecture, about  two  in  the  morning. 

"All  right,  I'll  go,  perhaps  you're  right.  We're  only  saying 
the  same  things  over  and  over  again.  Don't  get  up  too  early. 
I'll  think  of  something.  We  haven't  begun  to  look  for  her  yet. 
Keep  up  your  spirits,  old  man.  She  can't  have  gone  far." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

DERRY  passed  a  restless  night,  full  of  broken  dreams. 
Mossy  Leon  slept  like  a  top,  yet  he  was  awake  before 
the  other,  with  his  brain  alert  and  keen  for  the  clue  that 
had  escaped  him  at  Folkestone.  He  had  sent  round  to  the  flat, 
to  hear  if  there  was  any  letter  or  message,  before  Deny  had 
opened  his  eyes.  Deny  did  not  wake  until  ten,  and  then  it 
was  to  see  Mossy,  in  the  most  elaborate  mauve-quilted  satin 
dressing-suit  that  had  ever  been  devised  by  a  West  End  hosier, 
standing  by  his  bedside. 

"Hullo!"  said  Deny,  who  awoke  with  but  dim  remembrance. 
It  was  a  minute  or  more  before  he  recollected  where  he  was, 
and  all  that  had  happened  yesterday.  Then  he  sat  up  quickly 
enough.  "You've  got  news?"  he  exclaimed. 

"I  sent  round  to  the  flat,  and  there  was  nothing,  but  at  the 
office  I  heard  there  had  been  a  telephone  from  Carruthers'  firm, 
asking  for  your  address.  I  thought  that  was  good  enough  to 
go  on  with,  so  I  telephoned  to  know  what  they  wanted  it  for. 
It  seems  they've  got  a  wire  there  for  you.  He's  such  a  damned 
ass,  and  a  prig,  that  man,  that  he  wouldn  't  send  on  the  telegram. 
I've  told  James  to  get  your  bath,  and  have  breakfast  ready  in 
half  an  hour.  It  may  be  nothing  on  earth  to  do  with  her,  but 
then  again,  it  might." 

"She's  gone  to  Ranmore!     It's  from  Ranmore." 

Deny  was  out  of  bed.  He  looked  even  bigger  in  pajamas 
than  in  ordinary  dress.  "I'll  engage  that  she  has  gone  to 
Ranmore." 

"Well!  we'll  soon  know.  It's  time  one  of  you  went  there, 
they've  had  it  all  their  own  way  up  to  now.  I'll  get  dressed, 
it's  damned  cold  this  morning."  Mossy  shivered  in  his  fine 

336 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

suit.  "What  bath  salts  do  you  use,  there's  lavender  and 
mimosa  in  my  room,  Ethel  has  some  other  things,  ask  for  what 
you  want."  Derry  had  hardly  even  heard  of  such  a  thing  as 
bath  salts.  "We  shall  have  to  put  up  with  the  brougham,  the 
car  hasn't  come  back." 

"Can't  I  speak  to  Carruthers  through  the  telephone,  and 
tell  him  it's  myself?  Then  he  could  read  me  the  wire." 

"And  suppose  there  is  something  in  it  you  don't  want  him 
to  see?  He  is  a  cold-blooded  dogfish  of  a  fellow.  If  whoever 
sent  the  wire  had  wanted  Carruthers  to  know  its  contents,  they 
would  have  wired  to  him,  instead  of  to  you  at  his  office." 

Within  the  half-hour  Derry  had  had  his  cold  bath,  shavec1, 
dressed,  and  was  ready  for  breakfast.  He  felt  ever  so  much 
better  and  happier  this  morning;  sleep  is  a  great  restorative. 
The  telegram  would  tell  him  where  Rosaleen  was;  he  would 
not  doubt  it. 

Ethel's  morning  toilette  had  been  thought  out  quite  as  care- 
fully as  her  evening  one.  Derry  was  sufficiently  himself  to  con- 
gratulate her  on  looking  like  the  top  of  the  morning  itself. 

She  bridled  behind  the  coffee-pot,  and  apologized  for  the 
absence  of  James.  James  combined  the  duties  of  valet  and 
butler;  and  Mossy  took  a  great  deal  of  valeting.  Mossy,  who 
came  dawn  very  late,  said  the  tea  was  "hog's  wash,"  and  he 
thought  it  was  coffee.  He  then  had  half  the  dishes  taken  away 
to  be  made  hot,  and,  when  they  came  back,  he  pushed  them 
away,  and  said  everything  was  uneatable  and  he  would  have  a 
piece  of  cold  ham.  Derry  wondered  at  his  irritability,  but  Ethel 
was  used  to  it.  There  was  generally  a  reason  for  Mossy 's 
breakfast  mood.  Insistent  bills,  "third  applications,"  or  the 
remembrance  of  overnight  promises  had  a  way  of  making  early 
appearances.  This  morning  he  had  remembered,  while  in  his 
bath,  that  Carruthers  said  the  telegram  had  been  there  since 
Saturday.  It  could  not,  therefore,  be  from  Rosaleen  at  Ran- 
more.  Derry  gave  quite  a  good  account  of  breakfast,  but  he 
was  more  than  ready  for  the  brougham  when  it  came  round. 

Ethel  had  been  told  nothing  of  Rosaleen 's  flight,  nor  of  the 
letter.  She  understood  that  Rosaleen  was  in  Folkestone. 

337 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

There  was  no  use  spreading  the  news  about.  Mossy  said: 
"Women  did  cackle  so.  What  Ethel  knew,  Mrs.  Jobson  would 
know,  and  it  would  be  disseminated  in  Kensington.  What  was 
the  good  of  talking?" 

He  drove  Deny  to  Carruthers'  office,  it  was  only  a  stone 's- 
throw  from  his  own.  In  the  brougham  he  said  to  Deny: 

"I  feel  it  in  my  boots  now  that  that  little  devil,  Lady  Carrie 
Carthew  is  at  the  bottom  of  this.  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  've  got  at 
it,  but,  you  mark  my  words,  she's  at  the  bottom  of  it.  There's 
nothing  like  a  night's  sleep;  it  came  to  me  when  I  woke  up  this 
morning,  first  thing.  I'd  forgotten  all  about  it;  then,  with  the 
first  yawn,  like  a  flash,  all  our  yesterday  was  before  me.  I 
know  I'm  right;  you  see.  I  could  tell  you  some  stories  about 
Lady  Carrie.  Here  we  are,  I'll  wait;  you  bolt  in  and  get  the 
wire." 

Deny  went  into  the  office.  Mossy  lolled  back  in  the 
brougham,  smoked  a  cigarette,  and  thought  of  Lady  Carrie. 
A  pretty  type-writer  girl,  in  the  traditional  black,  tripped  up 
the  steps.  He  leaned  forward,  tried  to  catch  her  eyes,  and  suc- 
ceeded, even  in  obtaining  a  slight  smile. 

"By  Jove!  Carruthers  does  himself  well,"  Mossy  thought. 
He  had  not  noticed  that  the  house  into  which  the  girl  had  disap- 
peared was  next  door  to  Carruthers'  office.  He  philosophised 
about  men  and  women  while  he  blew  out  his  smoke-rings,  and 
waited  for  Deny.  He  meant  to  write  a  book  about  women 
one  day.  What  a  lot  of  them  he  had  known!  And  he  hoped  to 
know  as  many  more. 

Deny  did  not  keep  him  waiting  long;  he  was  back  before 
Mossy  had  decided  on  a  title.  "Wickedness  and  Woman" 
wouldn't  be  bad,  "Coquettes  and  Cockettes"  had  something 
to  recommend  it.  ...  Derry's  face  was  perplexed,  but 
rather  happy. 

"He's  got  good  news,"  Mossy  said  to  himself.  "I  wonder 
if  I  shall  ever  know  what  it  was  all  about.  Well?"  he  asked. 
"What  does  it  say?" 

"Here's  the  wire.  It's  from  my  cousin  Margaret.  I  can't 
quite  make  it  out,  but  it's  all  right." 

338 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Boy  arrived  safely,  delighted  to  have  him,  but  cannot  understand 
letter  first  I've  heard  that  you  are  in  England,  do  come  down  at 
once  and  explain,  carriage  shall  meet  four-forty,  wire  Margaret." 

"What  do  you  make  of  it?"  Deny  asked.  But  he  could  not 
conceal  that  he  was  pleased.  "She  is  there  all  right,"  he  went 
on.  "I  don't  understand  it  at  all — but  if  she  is  with  Mar- 
garet .  .  ."  But  Mossy  had  read  the  wire  quickly,  and  dif- 
ferently. He  could  not  help  but  damp  the  other's  expectation. 

"My  dear  fellow,  don't  make  any  mistake.  She  has  sent 
the  boy  to  the  Duchess,  and  she  has  written  her  a  letter.  But 
don't  expect  to  find  her  there,  or  you'll  be  disappointed.  If 
Rosaleen  had  gone  to  Dunstans,  what's  the  letter  the  Duchess 
can 't  understand,  and  why  should  she  want  an  explanation  of  it 
from  you?  Take  my  word,  the  Duchess  knows  no  more  than 
you  do,  if  as  much.  It's  some  move  Carrie  has  put  your  wife 
up  to.  I  'm  not  much  clearer  than  I  was  before,  but  one  thing 
I  am  sure  of:  Carrie  is  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

Derry  talked  through  the  telephone  to  Dunstans,  announcing 
his  arrival  by  the  earliest  possible  train.  Then  he  asked  if  the 
boy  was  there  alone,  or  if  his  mother  was  with  him.  No,  Rosa- 
leen was  not  there;  and  she  had  written  a  most  incomprehensible 
letter.  Derry  asked  if  he  might  bring  Mossy  Leon  down  with 
him.  He  might  help  them  both  to  understand  the  letter  she 
spoke  of.  ...  The  Duchess  was  as  cordial  as  possible  before 
she  was  cut  off.  She  was  saying  that  Derry  could  bring  whom 
he  liked  with  him  when  .  .  .  buzz  .  .  .  buzz  .  .  .  buzz 
was  all  that  came  through. 

Ethel  had  the  immeasurable  gratification  of  telling  Mrs. 
Jobson  that  Mr.  Leon  had  gone  to  stay  with  "Her  Grace  the 
Duchess  of  Towcester."  "She  really  did  not  know  how  long 
a  visit  he  would  be  making;  he  had  gone  down  with  her  cousin, 
Lord  Ranmore.  It  would  probably  be  for  some  time.  Lord 
Ranmore  was  so  devoted  to  Mr.  Leon." 

All  the  sisters  had  letters  that  night,  and  a  luncheon-party 
was  immediately  improvised,  where  it  could  be  brought  in — 
quite  casually — that  Mr.  Leon  was  at  Dunstans;  staying  with 
the  Duchess  of  Towcester. 

339 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

MOSSY  LEON  had  never  stayed  with  a  duchess  before, 
but  he  was  not  in  the  least  perturbed  about  it.  Why 
should  he  be?  He  had  stayed  with  Letty  Temple, 
he  said.  He  only  hoped  that  at  Dunstans  he  would  find  a  man 
who  could  look  after  him  properly.  He  would  have  brought 
James,  but  Ethel  had  a  confounded  luncheon-party — she 
always  had  when  he  wanted  any  of  the  servants.  Mossy  liked 
to  have  a  little  grievance  against  Ethel.  Their  train  was  to 
leave  at  1.30  from  Euston,  and  Deny  was  impatient.  Mossy 
brought  more  bags,  and  a  greater  variety  of  them,  more  port- 
manteaus, rugs,  and  paraphernalia,  than  anyone  Deny  had 
ever  met  traveling.  When  he  exclaimed  about  it,  Mossy  said 
that  it  was  a  damned  nuisance  to  be  without  the  very  things  you 
were  wanting,  and  as  he  never  knew  what  he  would  be  wanting, 
he  liked  to  be  on  t*?e  safe  side.  They  had  a  five  hours'  journey 
before  them.  Well,  of  course,  he  had  brought  a  luncheon 
basket.  Charles  had  gone  to  Fortnum  and  Mason's  for  it 
while  James  was  dressing  him. 

"I  don't  believe  in  roughing  it,"  Mossy  said.  "I  did  all  my 
roughing-it  before  I  was  eighteen.  My  father  was  a  reader 
at  the  Synagogue.  I  don 't  suppose  you  know  what  that  means. 
There  were  nine  of  us,  and  his  salary  was  one  hundred  and  twenty 
pounds  a  year;  he  made  as  much  more  by  teaching  Hebrew,  but 
it  was  a  tight  fit." 

Mossy  was  not  often  retrospective;  the  present  and  the  future 
were  good  enough  for  him,  he  used  to  say.  The  present,  which 
he  would  fill  with  eating  and  drinking,  and  pretty  women;  the 
future,  when  he  would  realize  all  his  ambitions.  He  hardly 
knew  what  these  ambitions  were  now,  they  had  been  so  dissi- 
pated of  late  among  leading  ladies,  and  ladies  who  wanted  to 

340 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

lead.  Perhaps  he  was,  after  all,  a  little  excited  at  the  prospect 
before  him,  and  so  reverted  to  the  days,  when  he  shared  a  bed- 
room with  his  four  brothers,  and  was  clothed  in  their  discarded 
garments. 

Mossy's  eldest  brother  had  paid  for  his  education  at  University 
College. 

"He's  dead  now.  Two  of  the  others  are  in  America.  They 
all  made  fortunes  except  me  .  .  ."  Mossy  puffed  at  his 
cigarette 

"Come,  you're  not  so  badly  off,"  Deny  suggested,  encourag- 
ingly. 

"My  dear  fellow!  I'm  spending  fifteen  thousand  a  year  in 
Grosvenor  Square  and  making  six!  Ethel  can't  help  thinking 
she's  got  a  position  to  keep  up,  it's  that  that  plays  the  devil  with 
my  income.  I  can  always  make  money,  but  it  comes  in  a  spoon, 
and  goes  out  in  a  shovel.  ..."  He  said  a  little  more  about 
Ethel.  It  was  curious  that  he  saw  through  her  pretensions, 
and  yet  was  proud  of  them. 

"I've  got  three  sisters,"  he  went  on  presently,  "three  of  the 
nicest  women  you  ever  knew,  but  you  never  meet  them  at  my 
place.  They're  Jewesses,  and  they've  married  Jews,  and  they're 
not  good  enough  for  Ethel.  I  often  go  and  see  them.  I've 
got  one  of  my  nephews  in  my  office,  a  charming  boy,  keen  as 
mustard.  .  .  .  His  father  has  that  big  tailor's  shop  in  Conduit 
Street,  Kilt  House  they  call  it.  The  boy  has  been  at  Eton,  and 
I  sent  him  up  to  Oxford.  I  took  him  to  see  Lady  Carrie  one 
day,  and  she  kept  him  to  tea.  That  reminds  me.  .  .  .  I've 
meant  to  ask  you  half  a  dozen  times.  What  sort  of  a  hold  has 
she  on  you?  I  suppose  it's  a  question  of  letters?  Funny  how 
you  and  Terence  both  got  into  her  toils.  Not  but  what  she's 
an  attractive  little  woman,  in  her  way.  The  fact  is,  I'm  not  at 
all  sure  I'm  not  responsible  for  some  of  this  trouble,  though  I 
give  you  my  word  for  it,  I  never  thought  of  it  until  I  was  on  my 
way  here.  I  did  give  your  wife  a  hint  to  put  the  brake  on  with 
you  and  Lady  Carrie.  She  must  have  had  a  devil  of  a  lot  of 
money  out  of  you  one  way  or  another.  If  Lady  Carrie  is  at 
the  bottom  of  it,  I  believe  it's  my  fault." 

341 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Derry  answered  slowly: 

"Lady  Carrie  has  nothing  to  do  with  me  and  Rosaleen. 
Nor  is  there  any  mischief  she's  after  making.  You  know  well 
enough  about  me  and  Lady  Carrie." 

"Me!  my  dear  fellow,  how  should  I  know?  Don't  forget 
I  never  knew  of  your  existence  until  the  day  I  met  you  in  her 
drawing-room,  and  she  asked  me  to  look  after  things  for  you." 

"But  .    .    ." 

"I  suppose  you  are  going  to  insist  I  know  all  about  it?" 

"But  you  were  there  ..." 

"Where?    In  Carrie's  drawing-room?" 

"At  the  Club." 

"What  Club?" 

"At  the  Ralyn  Club;  the  night  Sir  Harry  Carthew  was  killed." 

"Was  killed!  What  do  you  mean?  The  night  he  came  to 
the  Club  roaring  drunk,  and  tumbled  downstairs.  Yes,  I  was 
there,  of  course.  I  gave  evidence  at  the  inquest.  What's 
that  to  do  with  you  and  Carrie  Carthew?" 

"It  was  you  saw  Terence  strike  him." 

"What?  What?  Terence  never  touched  him.  What  put 
that  into  your  head  ?" 

"Terence  never  touched  him!" 

Derry  stared  at  Mossy,  and  Mossy  looked  back  at  him. 
An  express  train  thundered  past  them. 

"Thank  God  we  can  hear  ourselves  speak.  Now,  tell  me 
what  you've  got  hold  of.  What  bee  have  you  got  in  your  bonnet  ? 
Terence  and  I  were  standing  together  at  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
when  Harry  Carthew  came  staggering  up.  Carthew  and  I  had 
had  business  together,  and  he  attacked  me  about  it,  but  he  was  so 
infernally  drunk  that  it  didn't  matter  what  he  was  saying.  He 
wanted  to  make  a  scene,  Terence  wanted  to  persuade  him  to  go 
away  quietly.  I  believe  what  he  said  was  that  he  'wouldn't 
b — y  well  stir  until  .  .  . '  something  or  other.  I  think  he  may 
have  meant  to  have  a  go  at  me.  Anyway  Terence  put  himself 
between  us.  But  he  never  touched  the  man,  I'll  swear  to  that. 
Carthew  had  hold  of  the  balustrade,  whether  he  raised  his  arms, 
and  meant  fighting,  or  whether  he  only  let  go,  and  hadn't  the 

342 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

sense  to  know  he  couldn't  stand  without  holding  on  to  something 
or  the  other,  I  don't  know.  The  stairs  are  marble,  and  for  some 
reason  or  another,  the  carpet  was  up,  and  he  went  down  with  a 
sickening  crash.  You  know  what  Terence  was;  he  was  off 
like  lightning,  swinging  himself  down  after  him.  I  took  my 
time,  I  didn't  want  to  mix  myself  up  in  it." 

Derry  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Is  it  the  truth  you're  telling  me,  the  whole  truth?" 

They  were  in  the  station  now;  a  fat  woman  with  a  dog  in  her 
arms  tried  the  door.  Mossy  let  down  the  window,  and  called 
the  porter. 

"Keep  her  out  of  here!"  He  threw  him  half  a  crown.  "Say 
I'm  a  lunatic,  traveling  with  my  keeper;  say  I've  got  the  small- 
pox. Send  the  inspector."  Mossy  secured  privacy  for  the  rest 
of  the  journey. 

"Now,  go  on,"  he  said  to  Derry.  "I  don't  know  what  you're 
getting  at  and  I  want  to  get  clear  about  it.  This  is  a  devilish 
old  story;  who  has  raked  it  up  again?" 

"To  the  day  of  his  death,"  Derry  said,  seriously,  "Terence 
believed  himself  responsible  for  Harry  Carthew's  accident." 

Mossy  stared  at  him,  leaving  his  cigarette  to  hang  from  his 
lower  lip ;  it  was  a  trick  he  had.  Derry  went  on. 

"On  his  death-bed  Terence  told  me  it  was  he  that  killed  him. 
Lady  Carrie  said  it  was  you  that  hushed  it  up  for  her.  ..." 

Mossy  recaptured  his  cigarette  with  his  upper  lip. 

"Now,  that's  what  I  call  a  clever  woman!"  he  exclaimed. 
"A  devilish  clever  woman!  What  a  mind!  What  an  invention ! 
And  Terence  believed  that,  did  he?  And  paid  her  to  keep  her 
mouth  shut?  Well,  I'm  hanged  if  she  didn't  deserve  all  she  got 
out  of  him  for  thinking  of  it.  It  would  make  a  play,  wouldn't 
it?  Terence  was  just  the  sort  of  man  to  be  blackmailed.  God! 
if  men  had  no  consciences,  what  a  lot  of  women — ah !  and  some 
men,  too — would  be  thrown  out  of  a  fat  living.  I  never  did 
understand  why  Lady  Carry  sent  for  me  in  such  a  hurry;  and 
was  so  anxious  to  know  what  evidence  I  was  going  to  give  at 
the  inquest.  By  God!  I  do  believe  now  she  actually  fooled 
me!" 

343 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

That  seemed  a  great  feat  in  Mossy's  eyes;  he  could  not 
disguise  his  admiration. 

"She  made  Terence  go  over  to  Ireland  before  the  inquest. 
I  saw  him  for  her,  and  urged  it.  I  remember  it  now  as  if  it 
were  yesterday.  I  was  to  tell  him  to  keep  out  of  the  way,  out 
of  decency,  you  know.  Their  names  had  been  connected.  Why, 
she  must  have  actually  persuaded  him  he  did  give  the  fellow  a 
push  .  .  .  and  then  let  him  think  I  was  keeping  it  dark. 
.  .  .  What  a  woman!  She'd  have  married  Terence  if  he'd 
lived  long  enough.  I'd  bet  my  bottom  dollar  she'd  have  mar- 
ried him.  But  you  .  .  .  where  do  you  come  in?  She  was 
very  interested  in  you,  I  know,  when  she  brought  us  together; 
and  in  the  value  of  the  estates.  Of  course  she  is  an  attractive 
little  woman.  Up  at  Melton,  before  Carthew  died,  they  used 
to  call  her  the  Yellow  Peril.  But  with  a  wife  like  yours  .  .  . 
I  suppose  we  are  all  alike,  whatever  woman  we've  got,  we  want 
someone  else's.  I  know  I've  spent  days  thinking  of  one  woman, 
doing  all  I  know  to  get  her  to  go  out  to  supper  with  me,  sent 
her  notes,  and  flowers,  and  jewelry,  thought  and  planned;  at 
last  she  has  said  'yes,'  and  I've  ordered  the  supper,  and  spread 
myself  out  over  the  enjoyment  I  was  going  to  get  out  of  it,  kept 
the  rendezvous  with  all  the  expectation  in  the  world.  .  .  . 
Then  I've  seen  another  man  at  the  next  table  with  someone 
else,  someone  I  had  never  seen  before,  but  who  was  prettier, 
or  had  some  grace,  or  cachet  about  her  that  was  new;  and  all 
my  evening  has  been  spoiled.  Somehow  or  other,  it's  always 
the  other  fellow's  woman  we  want.  I  suppose  that  was  the  way 
with  you  and  Lady  Carrie,  it  was  Terence  being  there  first  that 
attracted  you?" 

Deny  had  such  different  ideals  from  Mossy,  and  felt  so 
differently,  that  it  was  difficult  for  him  to  explain  himself.  He 
never  had  a  thought  in  his  mind  toward  Lady  Carrie  that  all 
the  world  could  not  have  known ;  that  is,  as  far  as  any  personal 
or  amorous  emotion  was  concerned.  And  he  had  never  wanted 
any  other  man's  woman;  never  anyone  but  Rosaleen,  whom  he 
had  looked  at,  before  Terence  glanced  that  way,  and  from 
whom  he  had  never  looked  back.  It  took  him  all  the  way 

344 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

from  Grantham  to  Dunstans  to  explain  himself  to  Mossy.  Then 
Mossy  said  he  supposed  it  was  all  right,  but  he  was  damned  if 
he  understood  it. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you've  supplied  that  little  b  .  .  .  with 
money,  and  given  her  the  sums  you  have,  that  you  run  about 
after  her,  and  probably — mind,  I'm  still  as  sure  as  I  was  before 
that  she  is  at  the  bottom  of  this  trouble — estranged  yourself 
from  your  wife,  and  brought  about  a  devil  of  a  hullabaloo,  all 
because  Terence  told  you  on  his  death-bed  that  he  had  killed 
her  husband?  What  if  he  had?  Of  course  he  hadn't,  the 
thing  is  ridiculous,  he  had  no  more  hand  in  it  than  I  had;  less, 
if  the  truth  were  known.  I  believe  Harry  Carthew  meant  to 
have  a  go  at  me.  A  bill  of  his  had  gone  back  that  morning. 
It  was  nothing  to  do  with  me,  I  was  only  acting  for  the  Levine 
estate.  I  can't  make  it  out  at  all.  You're  no  fool,  Ranmore; 
and  yet  .  .  .  well!  every  now  and  then  I  think  you  must  be. 
.  .  .  What  were  you  going  to  get  out  of  it?" 

"I  did  not  want  anything  out  of  it.  If,  through  Terence, 
she  was  a  widow,  and  with  less  money  than  she  had  been  accus- 
tomed to,  and  Terence  asked  me  on  his  death-bed  to  look  after 
her,  to  take  care  of  her — well,  you  couldn't  expect  me  to  do 
anything  else.  It's  hard  lines  on  a  woman,  Mossy,  to  be  alone 
in  the  world." 

"  Rot,  my  dear  fellow,  rot!  That  is  second  hand  Lady  Carrie, 
I'll  go  bail.  Women  have  the  finest  time  possible,  especially 
when  they  are  'poor  little  widows,  alone  in  the  world.'  It's 
the  best  gag  they  can  get;  brings  down  the  house  every  time. 
I  like  the  idea  of  Carrie  Carthew  'alone  in  the  world!'" 

He  gave  Derry  a  short  outline  of  Lady  Carrie's  career.  Derry 
still  did  not  see  how  he  should  have  acted  differently,  but  he 
did  begin  to  wonder  if  Carrie  could  have  anything  to  do  with 
Rosaleen's  disappearance.  There  did  not  seem  room  between 
him  and  Rosaleen  for  anyone  to  have  made  mischief,  so  close 
they'd  been  together;  yet,  had  not  a  sudden  mad  moment  of 
unreasoning  jealousy  wrought  havoc  with  his  own  heart  and 
brain?  Jealousy  of  Mossy — Mossy  Leon,  of  all  impossible 
people!  Could  his  Rosaleen  have  been  jealous  of  Carrie?  His 

345 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

beautiful  Rosaleen,  and  Carrie  Carthew!  The  idea  of  compari- 
son was  preposterous — yet  he  had  been  jealous  of  Mossy! 
Nothing  was  impossible  it  seemed. 

The  luggage-motor  from  Dunstans  met  them  at  the  station, 
with  the  phaeton  and  pair  for  Derry  to  drive.  The  Duchess* 
intimacy  with  her  brother  had  taught  her  the  probable  direction 
of  Derry 's  tastes.  After  four  or  five  hours  in  the  train  he  would 
like  the  reins  in  his  hand,  and  two  good  horses  in  front  of  him. 
But  if  she  were  wrong,  then  there  was  the  groom  to  drive  him. 
Mossy  was  rather  uneasy  at  trusting  himself  to  Derry 's  char- 
ioteership,  and  asked  if  he  were  used  to  driving;  he  said  he 
thought  he  would  rather  go  in  the  motor.  Physical  courage 
was  not  Mossy 's  strong  point.  But  Derry  laughed  at  him, 
and  made  him  jump  up  beside  him,  promising  he  should  come 
to  no  harm. 

"Don't  make  any  mistake  about  it,"  Mossy  said.  "I  don't 
want  to  run  any  risks.  There  is  no  such  fool  in  the  world  as 
the  fool  they  call  'a  brave  man.'  He  is  either  too  stupid  to 
realize  the  meaning  of  danger,  or  too  unimaginative  to  see 
where  it  leads.  I  don't  want  a  broken  leg,  and  to  be  laid  up 
for  three  months  in  order  that  someone  I  don't  know  should 
write  in  the  papers  that  'Mr.  Mossy  Leon  behaved  with  great 
courage.'  I'd  rather  be  called  a  coward,  and  keep  my  legs 
whole." 

However,  they  got  to  Dunstans  quite  safely.  The  big,  square 
Georgian  house,  where  John  Gould  Percival  Vansittart,  Duke 
of  Towcester,  had  been  carried,  after  the  railway  accident  which 
had  begun,  and  ended,  his  honeymoon,  was  still  the  scene  of  his 
death-in-life. 

Up  and  down  the  trim  graveled  paths  of  his  celebrated 
gardens,  with  the  famous  yew  trees;  his  donkey-chair  was 
driven  daily,  an  attendant  in  front,  an  attendant  beside.  The 
inheritor  of  all  these  noble  names,  the  owner  not  only  of  Dun- 
stans, but  of  Brinston  Towers,  and  Barstowe,  the  shooting-box  in 
Scotland,  and  the  salmon  river,  the  Villa  Flora  at  Beaulieu,  and 
heaven  only  knows  how  many  places  beside,  sat  in  the  chair, 
propped  with  pillows.  He  sat,  huddled  up  like  Jack-in-the- 

346 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Box,  with  his  heavy  head  drooping  on  his  chest.  He  had  no  use 
in  his  legs,  nor  in  his  arms;  he  dribbled  when  they  fed  him.  His 
mind  was  a  blank,  and  his  memory  gone.  He  was  paralyzed, 
and  powerless,  and  dumb,  a  mere  lay  figure  that  had  to  be  washed 
and  dressed,  and  tended  as  if  he  had  been  a  baby.  Science  had 
done  this  for  him,  as  it  had  tried  to  do  for  Terence  Ranmore; 
it  had  kept  the  spark  of  life  in  him. 

The  Duke  of  Towcester  was  married  to  the  most  beautiful 
woman  in  England.  A  virgin  bride  she  had  been  brought  to 
her  husband's  ancestral  home,  and  faithfully  she  had  kept  the 
marriage  vows  that  had  never  held  any  meaning  for  her.  She 
lived  out  the  tragedy  of  her  loneliness,  ever  gaining  in  dignity, 
never  lacking  in  courage.  There  was  nothing  of  herself  she 
could  give  the  man  to  whom  her  life  was  bound,  for  there  was 
nothing  he  needed,  but  mere  tendance.  For  years  he  might 
live  like  this,  ten  years  had  already  passed  since  first  they 
brought  him  here,  and  nothing  seemed  to  have  altered. 

She  bore  his  name  only,  and  added  luster  to  it.  After  the 
first  bitterness  had  passed,  and  she  knew  the  meaning  of  the 
hopes  with  which  the  doctor  had  lured  her,  she  neither  com- 
plained, nor  weakened.  She  accepted  her  fate.  A  week's 
impulsive  courtship,  a  six  weeks'  engagement,  and  this  was  the 
end  .  .  .  the  imbecile  in  the  Bath-chair.  It  was  only  Terence 
who  had  understood.  Terence  had  had  that  gift  of  sympathy,  but, 
since  Terence's  death  there  had  been  no  one  who  understood. 
She  was  nineteen  when  she  married,  she  was  twenty-nine  now, 
and  the  donkey-chair  in  the  grounds  held  all  there  was  to  love 
and  cherish  her.  It  was  fortunate  that  Dunstans  was  in  a 
hunting  center,  for  hunting  was  the  only  thing  that  helped  her 
at  all.  She  loved  her  horses,  there  was  nothing  else  for  her  to 
love.  The  very  intensity  with  which  their  mother  had  cared 
for  Terence  kept  mother  and  daughter  apart.  Each  was  secretly 
jealous  of  the  other's  grief.  It  is  only  a  mother  without  a  son 
who  knows  what  it  is  to  grieve,  the  Dowager  said.  It  is  only  a 
girl  who  has  never  reached  the  crown  of  womanhood  who  knows 
the  loss  of  a  brother's  love,  the  Duchess  thought.  Her  mother 
had  memories  of  happiness;  while  she  had  only  memories  of 

347 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Terence.  None  but  Terence  had  understood  the  whole  tragedy 
of  the  grand  wedding,  and  the  end  in  the  donkey-chair. 

But  Deny  had  been  often  with  Terence,  and  with  her,  in  her 
free,  untroubled  girlhood.  He  was  so  much  younger,  adaptable 
and  loyal,  a  willing  slave  to  both  of  them.  Later  on  he  became 
a  good  companion  for  Terence,  steady  and  sober,  loyally  devoted 
to  him.  They,  she  and  Terence,  had  grown  quite  proud  of 
Derry,  it  was  a  younger  branch  of  the  house  he  represented, 
but  Terence  said  many  a  time  he  had  the  brains  and  sinews  that 
ought  to  have  belonged  to  the  elder.  Derry  was  associated  in 
so  many  of  her  memories  of  Terence. 

That  day  at  Claridge's  Hotel,  nearly  three  years  ago  now, 
when  she  had  last  seen  him,  she  was  still  under  the  first  shock 
of  her  trouble.  She  had  not  been  fair  to  Derry.  Many  and 
many  a  time  she  had  regretted  it,  and  wanted  her  opportunity 
to  tell  him  so.  But  when  she  had  inquired,  she  had  heard  he 
was  abroad;  and  that  he  had  not  cared  to  take  up  his  residence 
at  Ranmore.  She  seemed  to  understand  that;  she  knew  nothing 
of  the  legal  difficulties  that  had  been  put  in  his  way.  She  was 
sorry,  and  sorry  again,  that  she  had  not  been  kinder  to  him. 
In  her  mind  he  was  always  the  great  boy  who  had  been  a  dog 
at  Terence's  heels,  and  that  he  could  not  bear  to  go  to  Ranmore 
since  Terence  was  no  longer  there,  gradually  made  the  thought 
of  him  a  dear  one.  She  knew  the  improvements  had  all  been 
stopped,  and  the  place  was  fast  becoming  a  ruin;  she  had  seen 
it  only  last  year  when  she  went  there  on  the  anniversary  of 
Terence's  death.  But  wasn't  that  as  it  should  be? 

Then,  out  of  the  clouds,  as  it  were,  bringing  back  all  her  self- 
reproach,  and  her  memories,  came  the  child,  and  the  letter  from 
Rosaleen.  It  was  all  mystery.  She  was  bewildered  with  it,  and 
beneath  her  bewilderment  ran  something  like  fear.  But  Derry 
was  coming;  he  would  explain,  and  she  could  tell  him  that  she 
had  been  sorry  for  her  conduct  to  him,  had  thought  of  him 
often,  missing  him  out  of  her  life.  .  .  . 

Then  came  the  sound  of  the  horses'  hoofs  in  the  avenue. 
She  went  into  the  hall  to  meet  him,  the  great  hall  of  this  great 
cold  English  house  of  hers.  One  moment  she  heard  his  voice, 

348 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

and  the  sound  brought  the  quick  tears  into  her  eyes.  It  was 
so  long  since  she  had  heard  the  accent  that  never  seemed  to 
alter,  at  which  she  and  Terence  had  so  often  laughed.  The 
next  moment,  quite  unexpectedly,  he  was  holding  both  her 
hands;  her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and 
so  were  his.  Whatever  had  kept  them  apart  was  forgotten. 
It  was  her  youth  she  met  again,  just  the  tears  in  his  eyes,  and 
those  in  hers,  made  them  brother  and  sister.  "Shure,  and  isn't 
he  the  only  brother  I've  ever  had,"  Terence  had  often  said,  with 
a  mimicry  of  his  Irish.  Derry  had  her  hands,  and  was  looking 
into  her  wet  eyes,  and  kissing  her  on  her  cheek  before  she  had 
done  more  than  remember  Terence 's  mimicry. 

"Perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  have  done  that!  But  oh!  it's  glad  I 
am  to  see  you,  Margaret.  And  how  like  him  you  are  still.  .  .  . 
And  we'll  never  forget,  neither  of  us,  will  we?  .  .  ."  Derry 
began,  incoherently.  He  hadn't  altered  a  bit,  he  was  only  the 
great  boy  still.  There  was  a  sob  in  his  voice  behind  his  inco- 
herent words. 

"  I  oughtn't  to  have  done  it,  but  he  always  said  it  was  your 
brother  I  was  to  be."  She  was  quickly  ashamed  of  her  emotion, 
but  the  kiss  had  been  given,  and  not  resented.  It  ended  all  the 
estrangement  that  had  been  between  them.  Now,  there  was 
nothing  but  welcome  to  Dunstans,  and  a  quick  return  to  com- 
monplace. In  the  drawing-room  Derry  brought  Mossy  for- 
ward, and  introduced  him.  Mossy  Leon  arrested  the  attention 
of  the  Duchess,  taking  it  off  Derry  for  the  moment.  Mossy 
had  forgotten  to  take  his  cigarette  out  of  his  mouth,  and  kept 
it  hanging  on  his  lower  lip,  as  he  shook  hands  with  his  hostess. 

"How  de  do;  glad  to  meet  you.  You've  got  quite  a  nice 
place  down  here.  If  one  must  live  in  the  country,  I  suppose 
this  is  the  sort  of  place  that  makes  it  possible.  That's  a  Har- 
pignies,  isn't  it,  in  the  corner  there?  I  say,  wouldn't  the  Lon- 
don dealers  like  to  get  hold  of  that  cabinet  of  china!  I'd  give 
you  a  hundred  pounds  myself  for  that  David  Cox.  Don't 
mind  me  if  you  want  to  talk  to  Derry.  I  can  amuse  myself  very 
well  here,"  Mossy  said,  continuing  to  look  about  him.  He  was 
probably  a  little  shy,  and  tried  to  hide  it  by  an  excess  of  volubility. 
28  349 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"I  hope  we  are  going  to  clear  up  this  mystery  among  us,"  he 
went  on.  "It's  an  extraordinary  thing,  though,  how  tragedy 
pursues  a  family,  like  a  man  with  a  writ,  dodging  about  until 
it  gets  in.  There's  the  Duke  now  ...  I  suppose  he's  no 
better?" 

Derry  hurried  him  off  to  his  room  as  soon  as  he  could.  Even 
he  perceived  that  Mossy  did  not  shine  in  this  environment. 

"I  say!  hullo!  don't  go  away.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  find 
my  way  ..."  But  Derry,  having  piloted  him  to  his  room, 
hurried  off  again. 

"Send  him  up  a  man,  will  you?"  he  asked  Margaret,  when 
he  had  rejoined  her.  "He  can't  do  a  thing  for  himself,  and  he 
hates  to  be  alone  for  a  moment." 

"What  a  curious  person!"  said  the  Duchess. 

"He's  the  best  fellow  in  the  world,"  answered  Derry,  stoutly. 

But  oh!  he  was  glad  to  be  here  with  her  again.  Talk  was 
congested  between  them  for  a  little,  they  had  so  much  to  say. 
They  were  not  oblivious  to  Mossy,  they  sent  tea  up  to  his  room, 
but  they  had  such  stories  of  memory  in  which,  of  course,  he 
could  have  no  share.  They  had  been  together  long  summer 
days  at  Ranmore,  when  they  were  all  three  of  them  but  children. 
She  was  a  few  years  older  than  Derry,  but,  until  within  a  few 
months  of  her  hurried  marriage,  her  years  had  added  no  weight 
to  her  spirits.  She  had  ridden  and  hunted  and  fished  with 
Terence  and  Derry,  forgetting  that  she  was  grown  up.  Ah 
me!  the  years  that  had  passed  since  then. 

And  hadn't  they  been  together  that  fatal  day  at  Sandown? 
In  all  those  long,  slow  weeks  of  Terence's  dying,  it  was  Derry 
who  had  done  all  the  comforting  that  was  possible,  who  had 
hoped  with  her,  when  there  was  no  hope,  who  had  despaired 
with  her,  wept  with  her.  And  it  was  Derry  who  had  gone 
with  them,  when  they  carried  Terence  back  to  Ranmore,  to 
leave  him  in  the  cold  of  that  stone  mausoleum,  where  they  had 
all  three  played  together.  It  was  Derry  who  had  knelt  by  her 
in  the  chapel.  Even  now  she  felt  his  hard  young  hand  put  out 
to  grasp  hers,  and  heard  his  sobs,  that  mingled  with  her  own. 
Together  they  had  spent  those  few  awful  days,  when  all  the 

350 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

world  had  grown  suddenly  empty,  and  cold,  cold,  cold.  Why 
had  she  lost  sight  of  him,  the  only  warm  thing  in  this  cold, 
empty  world  ?  Now  she  would  never  let  him  go  again. 

"Your  hands  don't  look  like  an  engineer's  hands  any  more," 
she  said,  apropos  of  nothing,  but  remembering  how  they  had 
clasped  hers  in  the  chapel  that  day.  Now,  laughingly,  he  spread 
them  out,  they  were  brown  and  shapely.  For  a  moment  her 
eyes  were  piteous.  Terence's  hands  had  been  so  white  and 
small,  so  were  hers.  Derry  took  one  in  his  own,  and  laid  it  on 
the  broad  palm.  Margaret's  hands  were  famous.  Small  and 
ivory-white,  her  hand  lay  in  his  a  moment,  it  was  tapering  and 
pink  at  the  finger-tips,  there  was  the  hint  of  a  dimple  at  the 
knuckles.  Terence  had  been  proud  of  Margaret's  hands — 
Ranmore  hands,  he  called  them — and  used  to  talk  about  them. 
Sadness  lay  behind  all  their  disjointed  talk,  there  were  tears  in 
all  they  remembered.  It  would  get  better  soon,  but  at  first 
tears  lay  too  near  for  talk.  They  forgot  what  had  brought 
them  together,  they  forgot  what  had  set  them  apart,  Terence's 
spirit  was  so  near  to  them. 

"He  would  have  been  sorry  about  the  estrangement  between 
us,"  she  said,  brokenly. 

"I've  never  thought  of  you  but  with  love,"  he  answered,  with 
no  less  emotion.  The  Dowager  had  been  able  to  keep  him  out 
of  the  estate,  but  she  had  not  been  able  to  banish  either  of  them 
from  his  affection.  Derry  could  not  alter. 

"Where  is  she  now?"  he  asked. 

"She  is  in  Dublin,  busy  about  the  orphanage.  You  have 
heard  about  her  orphanage;  she  doesn't  get  over  her  grief  at  all. 
She  is  bitterly  unhappy,  and  bitter  in  her  unhappiness.  She 
has  resented  it  with  me,  because  I  grieve,  too,  always.  Derry, 
we  must  try  and  get  her  here.  She  must  see  little  Sonny. 
Derry,  how  like  he  is,  how  wonderfully  like  Terence!" 

Margaret  saw  the  faint  color  rise  in  Derry 's  cheek,  the  troubled 
look  come  into  his  eyes.  She  only  wondered  at  it  then,  but  it 
came  back  to  her  presently.  They  said  a  word  or  two  about 
Rosaleen  and  her  letter,  but  they  were  agreed  that  nothing  could 
be  done  that  night.  They  would  discuss  the  matter  thoroughly 

351 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

the  next  day,  with  that  odd  friend  of  Deny 's.  Meanwhile,  did 
he  remember  this  ?  .  .  .  had  she  forgotten  that  ?  .  .  .  Surely, 
Terence's  spirit  hovered  about  them,  glad  they  were  together, 
joining  in  their  reminiscences,  as  they  talked  and  remembered. 

The  Duchess  thought  it  would  be  dull  for  Mr.  Leon  alone 
with  them  at  dinner;  she  had,  therefore,  invited  the  vicar. 
Derry  assured  her  that  Mossy  would  not  be  dull. 

"He'll  amuse  himself,  and  you,  too,  if  you'll  only  let  him 
talk,"  Derry  said,  but  the  invitation  to  the  vicar  had  already 
been  issued. 

Mossy  came  down  to  dinner  in  his  shiny  evening  dress,  with 
brilliantine  on  his  scanty  hair  and  black  moustache.  The 
country  footman  had  not  valeted  him  very  well,  but  Mossy  had 
managed  to  tie  his  own  tie.  His  stomach  looked  a  little  more 
protuberant  than  usual  in  his  double-breasted  white  waistcoat, 
buttoned  with  enamel  and  diamond  buttons.  He  apologized 
to  the  Duchess  for  his  sleeve-links.  They  did  not  match  the 
buttons;  it  was  his  fool  of  a  man  that  had  packed  the  wrong  ones. 
He  gave  Derry  a  look  as  much  as  to  say  "I  told  you  so."  As  he 
talked,  his  black  Jewish  eyes  roved  about  the  drawing-room, 
appraising  everything. 

"Your  cousin  Deny  thinks  I  travel  with  too  much  luggage. 
I  am  sure  you  agree  with  me,  Duchess,  that  you  can 't  have  too 
much.  Look  at  these  links,  now.  If  I'd  brought  all  the  links 
I'd  got,  I  should  have  had  the  ones  that  matched  the  buttons." 

Margaret  agreed  with  him,  and  commiserated  with  him, 
quite  gravely.  He  grew  more  at  home  with  her  every  minute, 
offering  her  his  arm  when  dinner  was  announced.  He  acknowl- 
edged her  introduction  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Mason  with  a  curt 
nod. 

"I  don't  like  parsons,"  he  told  the  Duchess,  on  the  way  to 
the  drawing-room.  "Somehow  or  other  I  always  associate 
them  with  cold  boiled  pork,  and  greens  cooked  in  water.  Hanged 
if  I  know  why.  There  are  quite  a  lot  of  '  clergymen 's  daughters ' 
at  the  Frivolity,  but  they  are  not  usually  very  devoted  to  their 
parents!"  He  was  amused  himself  at  the  number  of  parsons' 
daughters  who  had  gone  on  the  stage,  and  he  laughed  about  it 

352 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"You've  got  a  very  decent  cook,"  he  said  after  the  first  entree. 
"How  do  you  manage  to  get  good  servants  to  live  down  here? 
I  thought  there  were  only  three  private  houses  in  Europe  where 
you  could  get  volatile  au  truffes  as  well  done  as  this,  and  one  of 
them  is  my  own.  I  'm  told  the  Rothschilds  have  all  their  fowls 
fed  on  chopped  truffles  for  weeks  before  they  are  killed,  to  get 
the  right  flavor;  perhaps  you  do  the  same  here?" 

He  told  her  a  great  deal  about  cookery  during  the  dinner, 
and  more  about  the  young  ladies  of  the  "Frivolity."  Mean- 
while Mr.  Mason  and  Derry  talked  of  sport. 

Mr.  Mason  was  an  old  Blue.  Now  he  took  great  interest 
in  the  village  cricket,  and  tried  to  enlist  Berry's  sympathies. 
But  it  was  for  rowing  he  had  won  his  blue,  and  the  talk  drifted 
easily  to  Henley,  and  the  prospect  of  the  Belgian  carrying  off 
the  Diamonds.  That  was  where  Mossy  broke  into  the  conver- 
sation, he  saw  the  Duchess'  attention  had  wandered  from  him, 
and  that  she  was  attempting  to  follow  it. 

"I  never  could  understand  why  a  man  should  sweat  to  pull 
a  boat  for  himself,  when  he  can  get  a  navvy  to  do  it  for  him  for 
half  a  crown  an  hour.  A  ragged  ruffian  on  the  towpath,  with 
a  good  stout  rope,  could  give  him  a  start,  and  win  every  time. 
You  don't  mind  my  saying  so,  I  hope,  Mr.  Mason,  but  this 
rowing  seems  to  me  such  a  fool's  trick.  A  man  might  just  as 
well  put  himself  in  harness,  and  pull  his  own  carriage  along! 
Tell  me,  now,  have  you  ever  been  in  a  good  motor-boat?" 

The  Rev.  John  Mason  had  never  before  met  anybody  who 
held  such  curious  views  as  Mr.  Leon.  He  took  him  quite 
seriously,  and  began  to  discuss  the  value  of  muscular  develop- 
ment, and  the  influence  of  athletics  on  character. 

"The  influence  of  athletics  on  character?"  repeated  Mossy, 
"I  like  that!  I  know  two  old  'Blues,'  as  you  call  them,  and 
one  boxer.  One  of  the  Blues  has  thirty  thousand  a  year,  and 
spends  his  entire  time  in  seeing  how  much  of  it  he  can  save. 
He  used  to  enjoy  a  game  of  picquet  at  the  Portland ;  but  he  gave 
it  up  one  day  when  he  lost  three  pounds.  He  cried  about  it  in 
the  Club,  and  said  he  would  be  ruined  if  it  went  on.  When  he 
took  his  son  up  to  Scotland  with  him,  he  docked  his  quarter's 

353 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

allowance  of  the  railway  fare.  When  he  isn't  saving  money, 
he  is  saving  himself.  He  wouldn't  visit  his  sister  when  she  was 
dying,  because  he  had  heard  pneumonia  was  infectious.  He 
owns  a  yacht  that  never  moves  out  of  harbor  unless  it  is  a  dead 
calm;  and  a  motor-car  that  is  not  allowed  to  go  more  than  eight 
miles  an  hour.  The  other  fellow  was  superannuated  from  his 
public  school,  and  left  Cambridge  without  a  degree.  Now  he 
stays  in  bed  until  twelve,  and  then  loafs  at  the  Bath  Club  until 
he  can  get  three  fellows  to  play  cards  with  him.  That  is  what 
he  does  for  ten  months  out  of  every  year.  During  six  or  eight 
weeks  he  shouts  through  a  megaphone.  'Coaching  the  crew,' 
he  calls  it.  I  grant  you  he 's  a  charming  fellow,  and  one  of  the 
best  companions  in  the  world.  I  'm  fond  of  him  myself,  but  I 
don't  know  how  you  are  going  to  make  out  that  athletics  have 
benefited  his  character.  In  my  opinion  there  is  nothing  in  the 
world  he  could  not  have  done,  if  he  had  not  wasted  the  best 
years  of  his  life  in  cultivating  his  muscles  at  the  expense  of  his 
brain. 

"Then  there  is  Bill  Barrasford,  the  amateur  boxing  cham- 
pion ;  he  is  a  son  of  Lord  Facius.  He  married  Flossie  Delaporte  's 
sister,  and  he  proves  the  'influence  of  athleticism  on  character' 
by  living  on  what  she  earns,  and  knocking  her  about  when  he 's 
drunk,  which  is  twice  a  day  at  least,  and  three  times  on  Sunday. 
I  could  give  you  a  score  more  instances.  Half  the  paper  marked 
'worthless'  in  Sam  Levine's  safe  came  from  youngsters  who 
called  themselves  sportsmen.  Thank  God,  I  was  born  with 
brains,  instead  of  muscles.  I  get  my  exercise  done  for  me." 

He  told  many  anecdotes  of  aristocratic  blackguards,  who 
played  cricket,  or  racquets,  or  polo.  It  was  the  strangest  'pos- 
sible conversation  to  the  Duchess  and  Mr.  Mason,  but  the 
butler  was  so  interested  that  he  forgot  to  fill  the  glasses,  and  the 
footmen  waited  badly. 

Mossy  committed  none  of  the  solecisms  of  which  Rosaleen 
had  been  guilty  at  his  table  on  the  occasion  of  her  first  visit. 
Yet  there  was  a  certain  analogy  in  the  position,  and  all  of  his 
conversation  was  strange  to  his  hostess.  After  the  Duchess 
had  left  the  table — she  had  no  opportunity  for  word  with  Deny, 

354 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

and  withdrew  as  soon  as  it  was  possible — Mossy  grew  still  more 
outspoken,  and  dogmatic  in  his  speech.  He  felt  he  could  hold 
his  own  with  any  country  parson.  There  was  some  allusion 
to  politics,  and  the  so-called  People's  Budget.  In  truth,  Mr. 
Mason  was  hard-driven  for  topics.  It  seemed  Mossy  objected 
to  all  direct  taxation;  he  said  it  was  nothing  but  swindling  a 
fellow  out  of  his  rightful  earnings. 

"Why  the  devil  should  I  pay  to  keep  up  a  fleet,  when  I  am 
always  sea-sick  crossing  the  Channel?"  he  asked,  pertinently. 
"They  would  get  all  the  money  they  want  if  they  put  a  tax  on 
women.  ..." 

When  he  really  embarked  on  this  theme  his  arguments  became 
eloquent.  The  clergyman  followed  the  Duchess  into  the  draw- 
ing-room with  what  speed  he  could. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

MOSSY'S  stay  at  Dunstans  was  not  prolonged. 
The  Duchess  had  no  fault  at  all  to  find  with  him, 
she  was  sure  he  was  most  amusing,  and  had  been  a 
good  friend  to  Derry,  but,  nevertheless,  she  asked  Deny  to  get 
rid  of  him  as  soon  as  he  conveniently  could. 

"I'm  really  not  inhospitable,  Derry  dear,  and  I  like  you  to 
feel  you  can  bring  your  friends  here,  but  he  is  so  obviously  out 
of  his  element." 

Mossy  was  no  more  anxious  to  prolong  his  visit  than  she  to 
detain  him.  He  was  bored  to  extinction,  or  to  practical  extinc- 
tion. Nothing  would  ever  really  extinguish  Mossy.  He 
wandered  about,  talked  and  smoked  and  coughed,  and 
looked  incongruous.  He  was  a  thorough  good  fellow, 
and  considered  a  wit  in  musical-comedy  circles;  but  here,  his 
good  fellowship  was  wasted,  for  he  could  only  make  guesses 
as  to  where  Rosaleen  had  hidden  herself,  just  as  Derry  himself 
could,  and  all  his  suggestions  were  met  by  the  Duchess'  doubts. 
He  was  not  of  any  use  to  anybody,  although  he  had  been  brought 
down  here  to  be  of  use.  His  wit  fell  upon  bewildered  ears, 
dulled  a  little,  perhaps,  by  tradition.  He  had  now  made  up 
his  mind  that  Rosaleen  had  only  left  her  husband  to  try  her 
fortune  on  the  stage.  He  brought  interminable  argument  to 
bear  upon,  and  prove,  his  point.  Look  at  the  people  she  had 
met  at  his  house,  all  of  them  able  to  do  something.  She  had 
got  jealous  of  Lady  Carrie,  and  had  joined  some  touring  company 
or  other.  Nothing  moved  him  from  this  view  once  he  had 
adopted  it,  and  he  was  only  irritated  by  the  incredulity  of  Derry, 
and  the  negation  of  the  Duchess. 

"What  the  deuce  can  you  know  about  it,  compared  to  me?" 
he  asked  Derry.  "I've  known  more  women  who  have  run 

356 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

away  from  more  men — and  with  them  too  ..."  But,  by 
now,  the  Duchess  was  in  possession  of  Rosaleen's  letter  to 
Derry,  and  had  compared  it  with  the  one  she  had  received. 
She  scoffed  at  the  idea  that  the  writer  of  them  was  venturing  on 
to  the  boards. 

"  Get  rid  of  him  as  soon  as  you  can,"  she  told  Derry. 

Deny,  too,  found  Mossy  difficult  to  entertain,  although  he 
was  ashamed  of  himself  for  the  difficulty.  He  took  him  round 
the  stables,  but  Mossy  said  he  knew  nothing  of  horses,  except 
the  odds,  and  he  cared  less.  He  said  he  disliked  all  animals: 
they  either  kicked,  or  bit,  made  incoherent  noises,  or  bred  fleas. 
The  same  objections  held  good  when  the  home  farm  was 
suggested: 

"My  dear  fellow,  what  the  devil  do  I  care  about  cows  and 
pigs?  Collect  me  all  the  newspapers  you  can  find,  I  suppose 
they  get  the  London  papers  here  some  time  or  other?  And  I'll 
amuse  myself  until  you  and  the  Duchess  have  gone  your  rounds. 
We've  settled  what  has  got  to  be  done,  and  I'll  put  it  in  train 
directly  I  get  back." 

It  had  been  agreed  that  Mossy  should  have  all  the  provincial 
companies  interrogated  as  to  a  new  recruit,  and  that  he  should 
make  every  possible  inquiry  in  the  direction  he  suggested. 
There  was  no  harm  in  his  making  inquiries.  Mossy  was 
nettled  at  the  Duchess'  doubts;  he  was  quite  sure  he  would 
find  Rosaleen. 

After  a  day  or  two  had  passed,  Mossy  was  quite  as  eager  to 
get  back  to  London,  as  they  were  for  him  to  go.  He  was  really 
a  cockney,  and  never  happy  beyond  the  sound  of  Bow  bells. 
Dunstans  was  the  back  of  beyond  to  him;  he  made  no  secret 
of  it  to  Derry.  The  famous  yew  trees,  trimmed  into  the  liknesses 
of  peacocks,  and  owls,  various  animals  and  birds,  bored  him, 
the  hot-houses  gave  him  a  headache.  He  did  show  a  gleam  of 
interest  in  the  great  vinery,  although  he  only  cared  for  muscatel 
grapes  himself,  he  said.  He  added  he  could  buy  all  the  fruit 
he  wanted  at  Covent  Garden;  and  that  there  was  a  tropical 
scene  in  Nat  Simon's  new  play,  as  superior  to  the  hot-houses 
here,  as  fine  old  English  oaks  to  Japanese  dwarf  trees.  Mossy 

357 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

liked  scenery  in  its  proper  place,  he  said,  and  that  was  on  the 
stage.  The  country  drive  they  took  him  made  him  yawn. 
He  did  not  disguise  any  of  his  feelings  from  Derry. 

"I  say,  you  must  get  me  out  of  this,"  he  said  to  him  already 
on  the  third  day  of  his  visit.  "I'm  only  wasting  time  here,  I 
could  be  getting  on  the  track  in  London.  And  really  and  truly 
I  can't  stand  the  country.  It's  so  noisy  ..."  He  was  used 
to  traffic,  but  the  birds  woke  him  at  four,  and  the  barking  of 
the  dogs  kept  him  nervous  and  fidgety. 

"Then  you'll  not  be  coming  to  stay  with  me  at  Ranmore, 
when  I've  found  Rosaleen,  and  we're  getting  back?"  Deny 
answered,  jestingly. 

Margaret  had  comforted  him.  He  thought  it  wouldn't  be 
long  now  without  his  having  news  of  Rosaleen;  and  when  once 
he  had  speech  with  her,  he  would  persuade  her  she  was  fit  to  be 
at  Dunstans,  or  Ranmore,  or  anywhere. 

"  Oh,  I  shouldn't  mind  Ranmore  so  much,"  Mossy  admitted. 
"But  this  place  is  so  infernally  tidy  and  trim,  it  gives  me  the 
hump.  There  is  something  warm  and  homely  about  Ireland. 
You  always  feel  there  that  it's  washing-day,  and  everything  is 
in  a  muddle;  that  there  won't  be  any  meals,  and  if  there  are, 
they'll  be  late;  it  is  a  nice  comfortable  mess  all  round.  And  the 
Irish  people  talk  all  the  time,  and  never  leave  you  alone  a 
minute.  I  like  their  picturesque  lies,  too,  and  their  blessings 
when  you  give  them  things.  I  can't  stand  the  eternal  row  there 
is  going  on  here  all  the  time.  Do  you  hear  that  infernal  pea- 
cock screaming?" 

When  the  time  came  he  thanked  the  Duchess  for  her  hospitality, 
and  said  that  he  and  Ethel  would  be  very  glad  to  see  her  when 
she  came  to  London. 

"And  I  can  get  you  up  a  show  that  would  really  amuse  you, 
and  will  be  a  complete  change  for  you.  Give  me  a  few  days' 
notice  when  you  are  coming,  and  make  it  Sunday,  if  possible. 
None  of  your  starch  and  stiff  parties,  but  a  few  really  amusing 
people." 

The  Duchess  said  courteously  that  she  should  look  forward 
to  it;  she  would  certainly  give  him  due  notice. 

358 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Mossy  was  quite  sorry  for  Deny,  left  alone  in  that  huge 
barracks  of  a  place,  without  a  theatre  or  a  music-hall  within 
miles,  with  only  one  post  a  day,  and  no  newspaper  with  his 
breakfast.  Derry  had  driven  him  to  the  station,  and  when 
Mossy  had  settled  himself  luxuriously  in  the  train,  he  really 
thanked  God  that  he  would  be  in  town  by  the  evening.  He 
felt  he  had  been  away  for  weeks.  They  had  been  the  longest 
three  days  in  his  life. 

Having  left  Mossy  at  the  station,  Derry  went  back  to  his 
cousin.  The  Duchess  had  her  own  theory  about  Rosaleen's 
disappearance.  It  was  quite  different  from  Mossy's.  She 
thought  Rosaleen  had  made  away  with  herself.  She  would 
not,  for  untold  worlds,  have  let  Derry  know  what  she  feared, 
or  why  she  feared  it.  She  never  dreamed  that  if  she  had  the 
clue  to  a  secret,  there  were  no  secrets  between  Rosaleen  and 
Derry.  Her  mission  was  to  comfort  Derry,  to  be  good  to  him 
for  Terence's  sake,  because  Terence  had  been  fond  of  him.  It 
was  a  mission  she  had  neglected  too  long.  She  was  very  sweet 
and  tender  and  womanly  to  him  in  her  mistaken  pity.  One 
day,  perhaps,  she  would  tell  him  what  she  feared,  and 
why. 

She  had  to  listen  for  hours  together,  after  Mossy  left  them, 
while  Derry  told  her  what  a  wonderful  wife  Rosaleen  had  made 
him.  He  told  of  the  days  at  Petchaburi  and  Woh  Poh  Pra, 
of  cooking  and  catering  in  the  wilds,  of  fine  needework,  and 
sick-nursing,  of  bravery  in  discomfort,  and  courage  in  privation. 

He  was  never  tired  of  talking  about  Rosaleen's  qualities, 
and,  apparently,  the  Duchess  was  never  tired  of  listening. 
She  had  such  a  great,  such  an  overwhelming,  pity  for  him,  as 
the  days,  empty  of  news  went  by,  and  Derry's  face  grew  haggard 
with  doubt  and  uncertainty.  They  had  not  left  everything  to 
Mossy.  The  Duchess'  own  lawyer  was  making  inquiries, 
and  employing  detectives,  but  the  certainty  that  was  at  the 
bottom  of  the  Duchess'  own  heart  seemed  in  some  subtle  way 
to  have  been  conveyed  to  them.  They  found  nothing,  they 
seemed  to  be  searching  for  someone  in  whose  existence  they 
only  half  believed. 

359 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

The  suspense  became  harder  and  harder  for  Derry  to  bear. 
It  is  no  hyperbole  to  say  he  ached  for  Rosaleen.  There  were 
times  when  he  could  neither  sleep  nor  eat,  when  the  horses 
failed  to  interest  him,  when  he  wearied  even  of  talking  about 
the  past;  when  he  was  frankly  and  unmistakably  miserable, 
and  Margaret  was  at  her  wits'  end  to  find  comfort  for  him.  He 
stayed  on  at  Dunstans,  as  she  begged  him  to;  and  "where  else 
would  he  be  going?" 

She  made  excuses  to  send  him  for  a  week  or  two  to  Scotland, 
she  said  the  keepers  wanted  looking  after.  He  could  not 
refuse  anything  she  might  ask  him,  but  he  had  no  heart  for  the 
grouse,  he  had  no  heart  for  anything. 

Sonny  stood  between  the  Duchess  and  her  talks  with  Derry. 
She  could  play  with  the  little  fellow,  love  him,  care  for  his 
well-being,  but  she  could  not  say  to  Derry,  "Let  the  boy  com- 
fort you  for  his  mother's  absence."  She  could  not  say  it.  The 
mere  sight  of  the  boy  stirred  in  her  some  nameless  feeling,  some 
feeling  to  which  she  would  not  give  a  name,  that  paralyzed 
her  tongue  when  she  spoke  of  him  to  Derry. 

Derry  played  with  the  child,  too,  but  took  little  pleasure  or 
comfort  from  him,  she  noted  that.  And  never  again  did  she 
say  to  him  that  Sonny  was  like  Terence.  In  those  red-gold 
curls  and  blue  eyes,  an  echo  of  a  childish  laugh,  a  carriage,  or 
a  gesture,  lay  hidden  the  pain  for  Derry,  the  secret  which  she 
would  not,  dare  not  try  to  penetrate. 

The  search  went  on,  governess-agencies  and  hospitals,  regis- 
try offices,  accident  wards,  even  refuges  and  work-houses. 
Not  a  stone  was  left  unturned.  Newspaper  advertisements 
were  inserted,  now  cautiously  worded,  now  boldly,  private 
detectives,  and  Scotland  Yard,  were  requisitioned.  Nothing 
came  of  it  all.  The  summer  dragged  on,  the  last  Drawing 
Room  was  over,  Goodwood  had  come  and  gone,  and  the  London 
season  was  a  thing  of  the  past.  The  i2th  of  August  saw  the 
grouse  exodus,  the  ist  of  September  supplanted  grouse  with 
partridge.  In  October  the  beaters  were  out,  and  the  pheasants 
rose  whirring  in  the  coverts.  But  the  mystery  of  Rosaleen's 
disappearance  remained  unsolved. 

360 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

By  October  Deny  had  lost  a  stone  in  weight.  His  eyes 
were  strained  as  from  constant  watching,  he  was  almost  intoler- 
ably restless.  He  had  followed  a  hundred  clues  and  they  had 
all  snapped  in  his  hands.  The  Duchess  thought  the  time  had 
nearly  come  to  voice  her  fears.  Surely  any  certainty  was  better 
than  this  terrible  doubt.  And,  if  she  could  tell  him  that  this 
girl  whose  loss  was  killing  him,  had  not  been  what  he  thought 
her,  if  the  wound  were  opened,  could  she  not  the  better  pour 
balm  into  it  ? 

"There  was  never  an  angry  word  between  us,"  Deny  said, 
for  about  the  thousand  and  first  time,  walking  restlessly  about 
the  boudoir,  taking  up  first  one  thing  and  then  another. 

"If  she  had  a  secret  she  was  afraid  you  would  guess,  if  there 
was  anything  in  her  past  .  .  .  anything  she  had  not  told  you?" 
Margaret  began,  hesitatingly,  desperately. 

"There  was  nothing  she  would  have  kept  from  me.  She 
was  the  joy  of  my  life,  and  the  heart  of  my  heart.  We  talked 
of  everything  together."  he  answered. 

"Deny,"  she  began  again,  abruptly,  and  then  again  paused; 
"  I  want  to  say  something  to  you.  .  .  .  Yet  I  hardly  dare  ..." 

"Is  there  anything  you  couldn't  say  to  me,  you  that's  been 
the  saint,  and  the  angel  in  heaven,  to  me?" 

"Sometimes  girls,  very  young  women  .  .  .  Rosaleen  was 
only  a  slip  of  a  girl  when  she  came  to  Ranmore  ..." 

"The  prettiest  colleen  in  the  three  counties,  Terence  called 
her." 

Margaret  had  the  opening,  but  she  could  not  use  it.  She 
relapsed  into  silence  again,  dreading  her  own  voice.  Yet  she 
knew  she  must  speak. 

"Deny,"  she  recommenced,  summoning  all  her  courage. 
"You  remember  .  .  .  that  day  in  the  tent  .  .  .  Terence 
spoke  of  her  to  me,  to  us  both.  She  was  but  a  girl,  Deny,  and 
Terence  had  the  charm — there  was  no  one  like  him." 

She  did  not  know  how  much  she  was  going  to  say  or  suggest, 
what  plea  she  must  put  forward.  If  Rosaleen  had  gone  away 
because  she  had  a  secret,  and  saw  that  secret  being  blazoned 
out  in  red-gold  hair,  and  blue  eyes,  and  dimpled  cheek,  must 

361 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Deny  learn  it  without  armor  against  it?  Would  not  the  clue 
she  was  putting  into  his  hands  be  some  mitigation  of  his  grief  ? 
She  could  not  bear  to  see  him  fretting  like  this  for  a  girl  who 
practically  admitted  herself  unworthy  of  his  devotion.  Very  close 
to  the  secret,  the  Duchess  failed  in  exact  interpretation.  She 
was,  as  the  children  say  in  their  games  of  hide-and-seek,  warm, 
but  that  was  all;  she  was  warm,  but  had  not  found  the  actual 
key.  It  was  just  a  dark  glimpse  she  saw,  not  the  great  whole. 

"She  left  you  deliberately.  Perhaps  .  .  .  perhaps  we  have 
been  wrong  in  trying  to  find  her.  She  may  have  had  a 
secret  .  .  ." 

Deny  turned,  and  faced  her;  there  was  that  flush  under  his 
skin.  When  had  she  seen  it  there  before,  or  the  look  in  his 
eyes? 

"And  afraid  you  should  come  to  know  ..." 

"What  if  she  had  a  secret?"  he  said.  The  flush  grew  deeper. 
"If  she  had  a  secret,  it  was  no  secret  from  me.  It  was  one  I 
shared  with  her." 

"You  .    .    .  you  shared!" 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of  her,  Margaret — of  my  Rosaleen  ? 
Is  it  she  would  be  keeping  anything  from  me;  me  that  loved 
her  from  the  first  .  .  .  before  ever  he  thought  of  her  at  all.  .  . " 

"Deny,  Deny,  what  are  you  saying?"  she  cried,  half  sick 
at  heart,  and  fearful,  she  hardly  knew  of  what. 

"Tell  me  what  you've  been  thinking?"  She  put  out  a  hand, 
as  if  to  ward  him  off.  "Tell  me,"  he  persisted,  hotly,  "tell  me." 

"Give  me  a  minute."  She  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hands. 
He  waited.  It  was  Rosaleen  he  had  to  defend;  Terence's 
memory  was  as  nothing  in  comparison.  For  the  moment  he 
forgot  that  he  must  defend  Terence,  too.  She  spoke  slowly; 
but  now  she  took  her  hands  from  her  eyes,  and  faced  him, 
sadly  enough. 

"It's  Terence  I've  been  thinking  of,  Deny.  And  that  Sonny 
is  the  living  image  of  him;  that  Rosaleen  may  have  seen  the 
growing  likeness,  feared  ..." 

"Feared — feared  me/  who  loved  every  hair  of  her  head; 
and  of  his,  too?" 

362 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Feared  lest  you  should  suspect   .    .    ." 

"Suspect!" 

"Forgive  me.  ...  I  hardly  know  what  I'm  saying,  I'm 
in  a  maze  of  doubts  and  fears.  I  seem  to  be  standing  on  the 
edge  of  a  precipice  I  dare  not  look  down.  Yet  if  what  I  scarce 
dare  to  think  is  nevertheless  the  truth!  .  .  .  She  was  under 
my  mother's  protection,  Terence  could  never  have  .  .  . 
Derry,  Deny,  I'm  wild  with  fear.  Why  is  Sonny  so  like  Terence?  " 

Derry  grew  quite  white,  and  a  little  cold,  for  her  eyes  were 
wild  into  his  in  her  questioning.  "Why  did  she  go  away,  but 
for  fear  lest  you  should  see  ..." 

He  made  a  step  forward. 

"It  wasn't  for  that  she  went  away,  Margaret,  it  wasn't  for 
that.  Margaret,  don't  be  thinking  hard  thoughts  of  him,  or 
of  her  ...  If  it  is  his,  if  it  was  Terence's  widow  that  I  mar- 
ried .  .  ." 

"  Terence's  widow!  but  what  are  you  telling  me?"  she  cried 
to  him. 

"I'm  telling  you  nothing  .  .  .  it's  Rosaleen's  secret  as 
well  as  me  own.  I  was  brother  to  you  both  .  .  .  and  if  he 
hadn't  time  to  do  all  he  meant,  and  if  I  fathered  the  boy  ..." 
He  was  incoherent,  but  his  eyes  were  wet,  as  well  as  pleading; 
"it's  not  harshly  you  will  think  of  him,  or  of  Rosaleen.  I 
waited  .  .  .  you'll  not  be  harsh  in  your  judgment." 

"Derry,  Derry!"  She  put  out  her  hands  to  him;  she  had 
no  words  for  him  just  then.  He  kissed  both  her  hands,  she 
felt  his  e^es  left  them  wet. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

WHAT  had  Derry  done  for  Terence  ?    She  looked  at  him 
now  with  new  eyes,  they  had  been  compassionate, 
now  they  were  wondering,   but  the  love  in   them 
deepened.     She  had  heard  of  bearing  one  another's  burdens, 
Derry  had  shouldered  Terence's  silently,  and  she  little  less 
than  her  mother,  had  resented  his  silence,  misunderstood  his 
great  loyalty  .    .    .  She  forgot  Rosaleen,  it  was  only  of  Derry 
she  was  thinking,  and  she  could  have  kissed  his  hands. 

Up  there  in  Dublin  her  mother  was  planning  the  orphanage 
that  was  to  be  built  in  Terence's  honor.  The  Duchess  knew 
little  of  the  estopped  rents,  and  the  threatening  law-suits,  and 
all  Mr.  Carruthers  was  doing,  and  had  done,  in  her  mother's 
name,  and  with  her  mother's  sanction,  to  keep  Deny  out  of 
his  own.  But  she  knew  that  her  mother  harbored  in  her  heart 
a  deep  resentment  against  Derry,  because  he  stood  in  Terence's 
place,  because  he  had  left  them  alone  in  their  trouble,  taking 
the  girl  with  him.  Margaret,  too,  had  thought  of  Derry  as 
recreant  from  his  inheritance,  an  absentee  landlord,  spending 
the  money  abroad  that  should  have  been  spent  on  the  Castle. 
For  she  did  know  something  of  what  was  happening  over  there 
at  Ranmore,  and  the  ruin  that  was  settling  on  the  place.  There 
had  been  a  coolness  between  her  and  her  mother  since  Terence's 
death,  an  unspoken,  unembittered  estrangement,  that  only 
meant  jealousy  of  each  other's  grief.  She  had  not  completely 
realized  that  all  this  time,  ever  since  Terence's  death,  the 
Dowager  had  been  planning,  and  scheming,  intermittently 
perhaps,  and  half-heartedly,  except  when  Mr.  Carruthers  went 
over  to  Dublin  to  strengthen  her,  for  the  ruin  of  Ranmore. 
All  the  years  of  her  life  had  gone  to  building  it  up,  all  the  years 
since  Terence  had  been  a  baby.  Now,  "let  the  roof  fall  in," 

364 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

was  the  burden  of  her  cry.  She  would  build  an  orphanage 
in  his  memory,  and  never  look,  save  once  a  year,  when  she  had 
the  Mass  in  the  Chapel,  on  the  place  where  his  children,  and 
his  children's  children,  should  have  played. 

So  she  was  draining  Ranmore  of  money  for  the  orphanage, 
depriving  the  estate,  under  Mr.  Carruthers'  tutelage,  of  all 
the  benefit  of  cottages  she  had  rebuilt,  and  dilapidations  she 
had  made  good;  the  boats,  and  the  sheds,  and  the  drying  and 
salting-houses  for  the  fishing,  the  coal-mine  which,  having 
cost  so  much  to  open,  had  not  yet  entered  on  its  paying  stage, 
claiming  reimbursement  for  the  new  stables,  and  the  repairs 
to  the  Castle.  All  the  workmen  had  been  called  off  the  day 
that  Terence  died.  Now  the  turret  that  had  been  taken  down, 
and  was  to  have  been  rebuilt,  let  in  the  rain  and  the  wind,  and 
the  tower  that  had  been  shored  up,  had  fallen  again,  carrying 
the  broken  masonry  with  it,  making  a  greater  ruin  than  had 
been  before.  Very  little  of  the  Castle  was  habitable  now. 

The  Duchess  had  not  quite  realized  what  was  going  on, 
but  when  Derry  left  her  that  morning,  she  seized  her  pen,  and 
wrote  with  a  full  heart  to  her  mother,  begging  her  to  visit  Dun- 
stans,  saying  Derry  was  there  with  her,  and  Derry's  son.  She 
wrote  with  a  full  heart;  but  her  letter  was  not  very  long.  It 
would  be  better,  she  thought,  to  tell  her  mother  by  word  of 
mouth,  or  perhaps,  not  to  tell  her  at  all,  of  the  strange  new  truth 
that  had  come  to  light,  but  to  let  it  dawn  slowly  on  her. 

The  Dowager's  reply  was  like  a  douche  of  cold  water.  She 
said  she  would  wait  to  pay  her  visit  until  Deny  Malone  had 
left,  and  as  for  the  boy,  of  whom  her  daughter  wrote,  she  had 
no  interest  at  all  in  Dennis  O'Daly's  grandson.  She  went  on 
to  say  that  she  had  just  decided  to  accept  the  plans  Mr.  Ash  had 
submitted  for  the  orphanage.  It  would  cost  about  £25,000. 
She  said  that  she  thought  Margaret  might  like  to  bear  part  of 
the  cost,  or  of  the  endowment.  It  was  of  her  brother  she  ought 
to  be  thinking,  not  the  black  Protestant,  with  the  heart  that 
matched  his  hair,  who  would  never  stand  in  Terence's  shoes 
as  long  as  she  could  keep  him  out  of  them.  She  was  surprised 
Margaret  had  so  far  forgotten  herself  as  to  entertain  him  at 
24  365 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Dunstans.  "But,  of  course,  you  cannot  understand  a  mother's 
feelings,"  she  had  added,  disconnectedly.  The  Dowager  had 
never  been  the  woman  she  was  before  Terence's  death.  To  the 
Duchess  this  letter  read  as  if  the  priests  were  taking  advantage 
of  the  confusion  in  her  unhappy  mind. 

But,  in  thinking  this,  Margaret  wronged  the  Church.  It 
was  Mossy's  unfortunate  visit  and  threat,  and  the  lever  which 
Mr.  Carruthers  had  made  of  it,  that  had  distracted  her. 

The  Duchess,  in  hurried  reply,  urged  that  the  orphanage 
should  be  abandoned,  and  the  money  used  to  recommence  the 
restoration  of  Ranmore. 

The  Dowager  sent  her  a  verse  on  a  postcard,  written  in  a 
shaky  hand,  the  handwriting  of  old  age: 

"Let  the  roof  fall  in;  let  silence 
On  the  house  forever  fall, 
Where  my  son  lay  dead  and  heard  not 
His  lone  mother  call" 

"Deny,  you  had  better  go  back  to  London  for  a  time,  or  you 
can  go  up  to  Scotland,  if  you  would  prefer  it.  My  mother 
will  not  meet  you  yet,  and  I  want  her  to  come  here.  You  don't 
mind  being  banished,  do  you,  dear?  I'm  sure  it  is  not  going 
to  be  for  long,"  she  said  to  him,  quietly. 

"I've  inflicted  myself  on  you  an  unconscionable  time  already. 
But  there's  no  one  else  I've  got  belonging  to  me,"  the  poor 
fellow  answered.  Time  was  doing  nothing  toward  reconciling 
him  to  his  loss,  and  the  look  of  him  made  the  Duchess'  heart 
ache.  Now  she  no  longer  thought  that  Rosaleen  had  made 
away  with  herself;  she  had  arrived  at  the  far  wiser,  if  still  incor- 
rect, opinion,  that  she  was  keeping  out  of  the  way  until  the 
family  knew  the  truth  as  to  little  Terence's  birth. 

As  soon  as  Deny  had  departed  from  Dunstans,  Margaret 
wrote  to  her  mother  again. 

The  Dowager  arrived  in  the  dusk  of  the  autumn  evening. 
Every  time  Margaret  saw  her  mother,  she  was  struck  by  the 
speed  with  which  age  was  overtaking  her.  Three  years  ago 

366 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

her  hair  had  been  brown,  her  figure  well  preserved,  the  light  of 
youth  still  lingered  in  her  eyes,  and  when  they  fell  upon  her  son, 
they  were  always  bright.  Now  her  hair  was  quite  gray,  she 
stooped,  and  halted  a  little  in  her  walk.  Her  eyes,  though  they 
were  bright  still,  wandered,  and  seemed  to  be  forever  seeking, 
she  knew  not  what.  These  three  years  seemed  to  have  added 
twenty  to  her  age.  Margaret  was  her  only  daughter;  she  ought 
to  have  been  all  the  world  to  her.  Margaret  alone  knew  how 
Strangely  the  tragedy  of  her  marriage  had  affected  her  mother's 
feeling  toward  her.  Terence  knew  of  it,  and  they  had  some- 
times spoken  of  it,  under  their  breath,  for  it  was  not  a  thing  they 
could  talk  of  openly.  Once  she  said  to  him,  brokenly,  that  he 
was  mother  and  brother  in  one  to  her.  He  had  kissed  her,  and 
answered  that  he  would  make  mother  see  with  his  eyes  one  day, 
there  was  no  hurry.  Poor  Terence,  who  was  so  hurried  in  the 
end!  It  was  as  if  Lady  Ranmore  resented  the  misfortune, 
more  than  she  pitied  the  victim  of  it.  It  was  Margaret's  brave 
fine  acceptance  of  her  circumstances  that  her  mother  had 
resented.  When  Lady  Ranmore  knew  that  the  Duke's  case 
was  hopeless,  that  it  was  only  a  travesty  of  marriage  her  daughter 
was  enduring,  she  had  urged  upon  her  to  try  to  get  a  dispensation 
from  the  Pope,  or  a  decree  of  nullity  from  the  Courts.  When 
Margaret  would  not  listen  to  such  a  proposition,  when  she 
expressed  her  absolute  decision  to  keep  what  she  could  of  her 
mutilated  marriage  vows,  Lady  Ranmore  had  been  angry. 
The  incompleteness  of  her  daughter's  life  hurt  her,  and  her 
surface  calm  acceptance  of  it  turned  pity  to  exasperation. 
Since  Terence's  death  the  resentment  seemed  to  have  grown. 
It  was  bitter  to  her  that  her  seed  should  die  out.  And  it  was 
only  obstinacy  on  Margaret's  part,  surely  she,  her  mother, 
ought  to  know  what  was  right  und  best  for  her  to  do.  The 
strawberry  leaves  she  wore  could  be  no  substitute  for  the  woman 's 
crown  of  which  her  head  must  be  forever  bare. 

The  Dowager  came  in  time  for  dinner,  and  her  daughter 
welcomed  her  at  the  station,  and  drove  home  with  her  in  the 
brougham.  Already  she  felt  there  was  a  new  antagonism 
between  them.  She  was  struck  again  by  the  alteration  three 

367 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

months  had  made,  and  she  was  full  of  self-reproach  that  she 
had  let  her  mother  be  so  long  alone.  Margaret  had  never 
failed  in  love. 

Lady  Ranmore  was  growing  old,  but  she  was  not  at  peace 
with  her  daughter,  nor  with  Providence,  nor  the  world.  She 
had  been  ill-used,  and  all  she  could  do  now  was  to  strike  back. 
Misery  had  turned  her  bitter.  Even  this  orphanage  she  would 
build  and  endow  in  Terence 's  name,  was  not  being  contemplated 
in  a  loving  spirit.  It  was  not  the  care  of  the  little  ones,  without 
mothers  or  fathers,  that  moved  her  heart  in  planning  it.  It 
was  to  despite  the  heir  of  Ranmore,  who  would  find  his  castle  in 
ruins,  and  his  lands  laid  bare.  She  was  spending  the  money 
as  a  measure  of  self-defense,  that  no  softening  should  come  to 
her  at  the  last,  and  lead  her  to  restore  the  revenues  she  drew, 
and  the  lands,that  had  always  gone  with  the  title,  it  was  to  add 
embarrassment  to  embarrassment.  Yet  it  must  be  supposed 
that  there  was  some  halting  weakness  or  doubt,  for  the  scheme 
had  lingered  all  these  three  years;  everything  had  been  settled, 
and  nothing  had  been  done.  Now,  it  seemed  to  her  there 
must  be  no  further  delay.  Her  daughter's  letters  about  Derry 
had  precipitated  action. 

The  Duchess  felt  it,  and  was  meant  to  feel  it,  all  through  that 
first  dinner  and  evening.  Lady  Ranmore  talked  of  little  else. 
She  had  brought  the  plans  for  the  orphanage  with  her,  and 
wanted  Margaret  to  look  at  them  that  night.  The  land  had 
been  secured,  and  a  deposit  paid  until  the  lease  should  be  signed. 
It  was  not  as  a  philanthropist,  as  a  benefactor  to  the  little  riff- 
raff of  the  Dublin  slums,  that  Lady  Ranmore  talked.  It  was 
as  one  who  at  least  was  accomplishing  a  deed  of  vengeance. 
She  was  pulling  down  the  temple  she  had  builded  with  her  hands; 
and  she  gloried  in  the  deed.  All  the  money  that  could  be  screwed 
from  Ranmore  was  to  be  put  into  this  orphanage,  royalties 
from  the  mines,  and  rents  from  the  cottages,  the  profits  from 
the  fisheries,  and  all  that  had  been  done  to  clear  the  estate. 
Margaret's  indignation  grew  apace  as  she  listened,  and  under- 
stood that  Derry  would  be  the  victim  of  her  mother's  misdirected 
philanthropy.  But  presently  her  pity  blotted  out  her  indigna- 

368 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

tion.  This  was  her  mother's  first  evening  under  her  roof,  and 
she  knew  nothing  of  what  Margaret  knew.  The  Dowager 
talked  quickly,  in  order  to  give  no  opportunity  for  argument, 
or  persuasion,  but  the  Duchess  had  no  thought  of  either.  Tri- 
umphantly the  Dowager  told  how,  with  Mr.  Carruthers'  aid, 
she  had  mulcted  Derry  of  all  that  was  possible,  and  would  mulct 
him  of  more  yet;  claiming  against  him  for  all  that  had  been 
done  in  the  long  years  of  Terence 's  minority,  and  after  Terence 
had  come  of  age. 

It  seemed  dreadful  to  the  Duchess  that  this  sad  old  age 
should  come  to  her  mother,  bringing  with  it  only  unkindness. 

"But  why,  why,  mother,  should  you  want  to  do  this,  to  ruin 
poor  Derry  for  the  sake  of  some  orphans  that  you  have  never 
seen?  Derry  was  the  orphan  you  made  a  home  for  when 
Terence  and  he  were  boys  together." 

The  slow  flush  came  into  the  old  face. 

"I  won't  have  you  speak  your  brother's  name  to  me;  you, 
that  want  to  put  another  in  his  place." 

"But,  mother  darling,  I  never  wanted  him  to  be  there.  God 
knows,  Terence  was  all  and  more  to  me  that  brother  could  be 
and  the  world  is  empty  without  him.  But  it  is  Derry 's  place 
now,  by  right.  .  .  ." 

"And  he'll  never  stand  in  it  while  I  can  prevent  it." 

The  old  hands  were  trembling.  It  was  as  if  some  malignant 
spirit  had  been  born  in  the  travail  of  her  grief,  and  now  it 
was  only  that  which  she  mothered,  and  it  had  become  part 
of  her. 

"Derry  Malone  will  never  stand  in  my  son's  shoes  while  I've 
life  to  keep  him  out." 

The  Duchess'  anger  warred  under  her  compassion,  while 
yet  she  realized  that  her  mother  was  not  wholly  responsible  for 
what  she  said;  grief  had  bred  a  maggot  in  her  brain.  It  was 
Mr.  Carruthers  who  was  influencing  her  conduct,  the  Duchess 
understood  that,  too,  although,  of  course,  she  did  not  understand 
his  motive,  and  that  "costs"  for  himself  and  his  firm  was  the 
pivot  upon  which  turned  all  his  evil  advice  to  her  poor  sorrow- 
weakened  mother. 

369 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Since  Mossy  Leon  had  been  imported  into  the  case,  as  Lord 
Ranmore's  representative,  Mr.  Carruthers  had  been  doubly 
keen  in  protecting  his  client 's  rights,  as  he  worded  his  keenness 
for  costs.  There  were  sufficient  intricacies  and  difficulties  in 
the  succession,  for  the  whole  matter  to  be  brought  into  Court. 
This  was  the  end  Mr.  Carruthers  had  in  view;  a  long,  intricate 
law  case,  with  pleadings  and  inter-pleadings,  endless  applica- 
tions and  adjournments,  costs  always  mounting  up,  and  accumu- 
lating, with  no  possible  benefit  to  anyone  but  himself,  and  the 
legal  profession  generally.  Already  he  had  briefed  counsel, 
and  decided  upon  juniors.  That  Mossy  Leon  had  delayed  so 
long  in  opening  proceedings,  was  a  great  vexation  of  the  spirit 
to  Mr.  Carruthers.  It  was  most  irregular;  and  it  proved  Mossy 
to  be  a  solicitor  of  no  standing.  To  protect  one's  client's 
interests  by  keeping  a  good  case  out  of  court  was  really  an 
irregular  proceeding  in  Henry  Carruther's  eyes.  Mossy  had 
a  good  case;  so  had  he.  But  Derry  would  not  go  to  law  with 
his  relations,  he  said  from  the  beginning  that  he  would  not  fight 
against  them.  He  would  wait  for  the  possession  of  Ranmore 
until  they  welcomed  him  there.  Mossy  knew  his  views;  other- 
wise he  might  have  been  tempted,  knowing  as  well  as  Carruthers 
did  that  a  law-suit  would  benefit  everybody  but  the  litigants. 
Mossy  was  quite  as  alive  as  Carruthers  to  what  was  expected 
of  him,  but  he  had  not  yet  issued  that  writ  for  which  the  other 
side  was  waiting. 

The  Dowager  came  down  to  breakfast  in  the  same  mood  as 
that  in  which  she  had  gone  to  bed.  She  wanted  to  talk  of  Ran- 
more, and  let  her  daughter  see  how  firm  she  was  in  her  decision 
to  keep  Derry  out  of  it. 

She  was  disappointed  if  she  expected  to  be  persuaded.  The 
Duchess  asked  how  she  had  slept,  and  spoke  of  common  friends 
and  acquaintances,  ignoring  the  argument  that  was  expected 
of  her.  She  saw  that  nearly  all  her  mother's  grievances  against 
Derry,  and  half  the  rancor,  was  bred  by  talk.  All  that  day  she 
held  her  peace.  She  might  plead,  but  she  would  not  argue. 
She  cared  for  her  mother's  physical  comforts  all  that  day.  She 
saw  to  her  sofa  cushions,  and  footstool,  and  every  now  and  again 

370 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

she  would  say  a  loving  word,  put  a  soft  cheek  down  against  the 
wrinkled  one,  trying  for  a  wordless  caress.  The  response  was 
very  small; 

"He  has  been  here,  then?" 

"Yes,  mother,  Derry  has  been  staying  here." 

"I  wonder  at  you,  I  do!" 

"You  wouldn't  wonder  if  you  saw  him.  There  is  nothing 
in  his  heart  but  love  for  you,  and  for  us  all." 

"Was  it  love  for  us  that  made  him  send  that  Jew  lawyer  to 
me,  threatening  to  bar  me  from  saying  me  prayers  where  me 
husband  and  son  are  lying?  Not  that  I'm  wanting  his  love. 
Didn't  he  come  to  us  at  Ranmore  when  he  was  a  bit  of  a  boy, 
and  now  isn't  he  wanting  it  for  himself,  and  trying  to  bar  me 
out?"  The  trembling,  impotent  anger  of  old  age  shook  her  as 
if  with  palsy. 

"Mother,  it  is  his  own,"  she  urged  gently. 

"His  own,  is  it?"  And  then  she  began  to  cry,  and  rock  her- 
self to  and  fro.  "Ranmore,  that  was  for  Terence,  and  for 
Terence's  son!  Me,  to  be  turned  out  in  me  old  age!  Me, 
that's  without  a  son.  ..." 

"He  would  have  been  a  son  to  you,  if  you  had  let  him.  Ter- 
nece  loved  him,  mother,  and  he  loved  Terence."  She  pleaded 
well. 

"Didn't  he  leave  us  in  the  first  week  of  the  trouble,  running 
away  to  London  from  the  sorrow  he  had  helped  to  bring  on  the 
house?"  For,  by  now,  she  had  persuaded  herself  it  was  Derry 
who  had  urged  Terence  to  ride  on  that  fatal  day. 

"I  won't  argue  with  you,  mother  dearie.  I  want  you  to  be 
as  happy  as  possible  with  me  while  you  are  here.  It  is  an 
abiding  grief  to  me  that  you  care  so  seldom  to  come  to  me,  or  to 
have  me  with  you.  We  must  not  quarrel;  both  of  us  so  alone 
in  the  world.  But  I  know  Derry,  and  so  do  you;  and  if  he  left 
us  abruptly,  and,  as  it  seemed  then,  heartlessly,  he  had  some 
good  reason  for  it.  I  am  convinced  of  it  now,  some  reason  for 
which,  if  you  knew,  you  would  honor  him.  There  is  not  a 
thought  in  his  mind  against  anyone  of  us,  not  even  against  you, 
for  all  you  have  done,  and  are  doing,  to  thwart  him." 

371 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"He,  to  dare  to  be  angered  against  me!  Deny  Malone — 
and  him  scarcely  a  Ranmore  at  all!  .  .  .  What's  this?  .  .  . 
What  '5  this?  ..."  Her  voice  broke  into  a  high  quaver. 

This  was  an  impudent  little  figure,  with  blue  eyes  that 
laughed,  and  red-gold  curls  clustering  about  his  head,  who 
came  to  say  "good-night"  to  Auntie  Margaret,  as  he  came 
every  evening,  unchecked,  sure  of  a  welcome.  Such  a  gay, 
dancing,  little  figure,  in  a  white  frock,  and  with  bare  feet.  There 
was  something  in  his  hand,  he  had  run  out  to  gather  daisies  for 
Auntie  Margaret;  and  he  had  gathered  some  of  the  grass  with 
them,  too,  they  were  all  crumpled  together  in  his  hot  hand. 
But  he  was  quite  proud  of  his  offering. 

"For  you,  for  you!"  he  cried.  And  then,  because  he  was  full 
of  life  and  spirit,  a  little  boy  that  no  one  had  ever  scolded,  he 
threw  them  at  her,  and  they  fell  on  her  dress,  and  on  the  ground. 
She  caught  him  up  in  her  arms,  she  could  swing  a  baby  in  her 
arms,  and  toss  him  until  he  crowed,  and  crowed  again,  for  all 
she  had  none  of  her  own,  and  her  life  was  barren.  This  one 
gave  her  pain  and  pleasure;  but  to-day  the  pain  seemed  in  excess. 
She  held  him  close  in  her  arms  for  an  instant,  for  she  knew  the 
moment  had  come.  She  told  him  he  was  a  bad  boy  to  throw 
the  flowers  at  her,  and  he  must  say  "good  night"  properly,  and 
say  that  he  was  sorry  he  flung  the  flowers  instead  of  presenting 
them,  like  the  young  gentleman  that  he  was.  And  now  he  was 
to  show  he  knew  how  to  behave,  for  she  was  going  to  present 
him  to  a  lady.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears;  and  he  looked  at 
her  wonderingly.  He  knew  he  had  been  naughty,  but  he  did 
not  want  her  to  cry. 

"  This,  mother,  this  .  .  .  is  Deny 's  son.  Is  it  no  Ranmore 
you're  calling  him?  Look  at  him." 

She  put  the  boy  down,  and  he  stood  there  a  moment,  shyly. 
Then  he  ran  quickly  to  the  old  lady  in  the  chair,  for  her  eyes 
drew  him.  He  did  not  understand  the  wonder  and  yearning 
in  them,  but  he  went  to  her.  Never  a  word  had  she  said  since 
that  cry,  and  she  was  breathing  unevenly. 

"Terence  good  now;  don't  cry."  He  put  up  his  face  for  a 
kiss.  "Terence  good  now,"  he  repeated.  She  laid  a  trembling 

372 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

uncertain  hand  on  his  head.  Oh !  the  curls  she  had  felt  like  that 
under  her  hand,  the  silk  and  gold  of  them ! 

"Is  it  .  .  .  is  it  Berry's  son  you're  telling  me?"  Her 
voice  was  quite  broken. 

"  Yes,  it  is  Deny 's  son.  He  has  called  him  Terence.  Mother, 
you  are  not  going  to  refuse  to  kiss  him  ?  See,  his  lip  is  quivering, 
he  is  going  to  cry,  he  doesn't  know  there  is  such  a  thing  as  hate 
in  the  world.  You  can't  carry  it  on  to  him." 

Then  all  at  once  she  ran  to  her  mother  and  put  her  arms 
about  her;  for  the  words  that  came  were  like  the  broken  words 
of  delirium. 

"What's  that  you're  telling  me?  It's  Terence's  son,  my 
son's  son!"  Her  voice  rose  to  a  wail.  "Oh,  God,  the  day! 
My  boy's  son!  Let  me  be,  I  tell  you,  let  me  be."  She  shook 
off  the  encircling  arms.  "I  want  to  see  his  face,  to  feel  the  curls 
of  him.  .  .  .  Oh,  my  boy,  my  son,  my  dear,  dead  son."  The 
old  head  went  down  on  the  red  curls.  She  was  shaken  with 
sobs;  dry,  wordless  sobs. 

The  Duchess  hesitated,  paused  a  moment,  and  then  went 
out  softly,  closing  the  door  behind  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

IF  the  Duchess  had  expected  her  mother  to  exchange  con- 
fidences that  night,  she  was  disappointed.  The  Dowager 
kept  the  child  with  her  for  a  long  time,  until  the  nurse  went 
for  him,  in  fact.  She  did  not  appear  at  dinner,  and  she  refused 
her  daughter 's  offer  to  go  up  and  sit  with  her.  She  sent  down 
word  that  she  wanted  to  be  alone,  she  had  a  sick  headache.  The 
next  day,  and  the  next,  Margaret  waited  for  question  or  comment. 
None  came.  Her  mother  was  singularly  quiet,  sitting  about 
in  her  black  silk  dress,  and  lace  cap,  with  her  shawl  over  her 
shoulders,  saying  no  word  of  what  had  happened.  She  com- 
plained of  the  cold,  and  Margaret  was  solicitous  about  her 
health,  asking  her  if  she  would  like  to  see  a  doctor. 

"Why  should  I  see  a  doctor?  I  am  quite  well,"  she  answered. 
"You  are  forever  thinking  people  are  ill,  there  is  nothing  the 
matter  with  me."  She  always  resented  the  Duke's  nurses,  and 
the  fuss  that  was  made  about  him. 

"Would  you  like  the  child  to  come  in  and  see  you  this  morn- 
ing?" This  was  Margaret's  next  attempt  to  draw  her  into 
talk. 

"And  why  not?"  Now  the  Dowager's  eyes  began  to  watch 
the  Duchess,  even  as  the  Duchess,  but  differently,  was  watching 
her.  The  Duchess  was  uneasy  about  her  mother;  she  did  not 
understand  this  quiet  attitude,  she  was  waiting  to  be  questioned, 
she  began  to  fear  lest  her  hopes  for  Deny  would  be  disappointed. 
It  seemed  to  her  that,  if  her  mother  had  become  withered,  and 
arid,  and  old,  this  was  a  fountain  of  life  from  which  to  drink. 
Must  she  trace  its  source,  and  see  from  what  muddy  inlet  the 
stream  had  birth?  Was  it  not  enough  that  now  it  was  clean 
and  sweet,  an  Irish  stream,  that  ran  clear  from  the  mountains? 
It  had  welled  out  through  the  fronds  of  a  hart's-tongue  fern, 
it  would  widen  through  flowers  and  plants,  slipping  round 

374 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

boulders,  clattering  over  stones,  now  cool  and  deep  with  sleeping 
golden  showers,  now  gliding  in  a  thin  line  of  silver.  She  could 
drink  and  drink  again  from  it,  she  had  but  to  look,  to  see  it  was 
undented. 

The  Duchess  thought  to  see  something  of  her  mother 's  active 
middle  age  come  back  to  her,  those  proud  and  happy  days  when 
she  had  been  the  mother  of  a  son.  She  had  looked  to  see  the 
maggot  in  her  brain  die,  and  butterflies  spring  from  it,  gossamer- 
colored,  playful,  and  pursuing  in  the  sunshine. 

The  last  thing  she  had  dreamed  was  that  the  secret  of  Sonny 's 
birth  was  one  that  the  Dowager  thought  must  be  kept  at  all 
hazards  from  her  daughter,  lest  she  should  resent  it,  especially 
lest  she  should  resent  it  to  him.  Already  there  was  only  one 
"him"  for  the  Dowager,  as  there  had  been  in  Terence's  life- 
time. The  Duchess  took  a  long  time  to  read  the  cunning  that 
began  to  gleam  in  those  old  eyes;  or  to  see  that  her  mother  would 
be  a  miser  over  the  treasure  that  she  thought  was  known  only 
to  herself.  Nobody  must  know.  How  it  had  come  about  she 
had  no  time,  or  wish,  to  think,  but  that  this  was  her  son's  son 
she  had  no  doubt.  And  nobody  must  guess  it.  She  planned 
and  contrived,  using  subterfuge  and  feints,  to  have  the  child 
with  her,  or  to  spend  an  hour  in  the  nursery  with  him.  She 
would  say : 

"Are  you  going  out  in  the  carriage  this  afternoon?" 

"Just  as  you  like,  mother.  I  will  do  whatever  you  are 
wanting  me  to." 

"I'll  not  be  going  out  at  all,  then,  I  like  to  sit  about  in  the 
grounds."  With  the  boy  playing  beside  her.  Or  it  was: 

"If  you're  not  using  the  carriage  this  afternoon,  I'd  not  mind 
driving  into  town.  There 's  some  shopping  I'd  like  to  be  doing." 
Then  she  would  add,  indifferently,  quite  as  an  after-thought: 
"I  might  take  the  child  along  with  me,  he  won't  be  in  my  way 
at  all." 

She  would  smuggle  toys  to  the  nursery,  watching,  out  of  those 
cunning  eyes,  to  see  if  her  daughter  noticed  anything.  Once, 
when  Margaret  surprised  her  with  the  child  in  her  bedroom, 
talking  baby-talk,  it  was  quite  apologetically  she  had  said: 

375 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"It  isn't  unlike  Terence  he  is!"  while  she  looked  to  see  if 
Margaret  had  noted  the  words. 

The  Duchess  began  to  understand.  She  was  drinking  of  the 
well ;  she  was  holding  herself  more  erect,  some  of  the  years  were 
slipping  away  from  her,  and  some  of  the  sorrow.  But  she  was 
drinking  surreptitiously,  not  because  she  feared  the  source,  but 
lest  others  should  query  it. 

Meanwhile  Derry  was  being  kept  away  from  Dunstans,  and 
his  rights  were  in  abeyance.  Margaret  thought  the  time  had 
come  when  she  might  venture  again  to  introduce  the  subject  of 
Derry 's  rights.  She  missed  him;  she  knew  he  would  be  more 
desolate  away  in  Scotland  than  here,  within  reach  of  her  sym- 
pathy. Chance  aided  her,  but  she  would  have  spoken  soon, 
even  if  all  the  chances  had  been  the  other  way. 

Dunstans  was  an  ordered  English  home,  with  wide,  terraced 
lawns,  close-cropped,  rare  tropical  trees  as  well  as  the  trimmed 
yews,  great  banks  of  flowers,  pergolas  where  still  the  late  roses 
lingered.  There  were  hot-houses  full  of  flowers  and  fruit,  but 
these  were  the  gardeners '  preserves.  Sonny 's  toddling,  straying 
feet  took  him  from  the  green  lawns  to  the  tempting  open  door 
of  a  greenhouse;  he  thought  flowers  grew  for  the  plucking. 
Already  there  had  been  complaints  that  little  Terence  was 
bringing  disorder.  He  was  not  always  satisfied  with  daisies 
and  grass,  nor  could  Nurse  always  quickly  restrain  him  from 
dragging  at  a  leafless  rose-tree,  upheld  in  its  decrepit  path  by 
a  stouter  twig,  or  from  pulling  at  a  narcissus  that  the  soft  weather 
had  brought  into  late  flower.  Master  Terence  was  not  to  be 
trusted  in  the  garden,  and  the  head  gardener  laid  his  formal 
complaint.  He  intercepted  the  Duchess  in  the  grounds  when 
she  was  walking  with  her  mother,  and  brought  his  charge. 

"And  why  shouldn't  he  pick  the  flowers  if  he  wants?"  the 
Dowager  interrupted,  indignantly.  "Are  the  flowers  only  to 
be  looked  at?  And  what  if  his  feet  disturb  the  beds?  Can't 
they  be  planted  again?  .  .  ." 

Margaret  said  a  quieting  word  or  two  to  the  gardener.  The 
man  was  within  his  rights,  and  doing  what  he  thought  was  his 
duty.  She  said  she  would  tell  Nurse  to  let  Master  Terence 

376 


take  his  walks  a  little  further  afield,  then  Thomson  need  not 
fear  that  anything  within  view  of  the  house  would  be  spoiled. 
But  the  Dowager  went  on  muttering  her  indignation.  She 
asked  for  whose  benefit  the  flower  gardens  were  maintained. 

"Is  it  for  the  omadhaun  in  the  donkey-chair?" 

It  was  then  that  Margaret  took  the  first  firm  step,  without 
pausing  to  see  where  the  next  would  land  her. 

"It's  in  Ranmore  woods  he  ought  to  be  playing,  mother,  and 
you  know  it  as  well  as  I.  It's  wild  roses,  and  woodbine  that 
call  to  him,  climbing  about  Ranmore.  He  should  be  roaming 
in  the  freedom  of  his  own  home.  Dennis  McCreagh,  and  Peter, 
and  all  of  them,  would  well  like  to  be  watching  over  him.  They  'd 
not  be  checking  him  when  he  gathered  the  flowers,  or  broke 
down  the  beds.  .  .  . " 

She  stopped  at  that,  hurrying  a  little  so  that  her  mother  need 
not  answer,  but  the  Dowager  had  no  answer  ready.  She  looked 
at  her  daughter  sharply,  and  then  turned  away.  How  easily 
she  saw  him,  as  Margaret  had  said,  flitting  through  Ranmore 
woods,  playing  in  its  untidy  grounds,  free  from  English 
trammels,  the  ordered  meal-times,  the  starched  white  clothes,  the 
regularity  that  irked  herself. 

That  night,  at  dinner,  as  carelessly  as  she  was  able,  and  as 
if  the  subject  of  Deny  had  never  been  approached  between 
them,  and  she  had  never  spoken  an  unkind  word  of  him,  she 
asked,  with  that  strange  new  cunning  which  had  come  upon  her, 
"And  when  is  Derry  coming  to  visit  you  again?"  She  eyed 
her  daughter,  when  she  asked  this,  as  if  she  were  her  antagonist, 
as  if  it  were  she  that  was  purposely  keeping  Derry  away. 

Margaret  did  not  mind  how  it  came  about,  at  least  it  had 
come  about,  that  her  mother  wanted  speech  with  Derry.  She 
answered  just  as  carelessly  as  she  had  been  asked. 

"  Some  time  next  week,  I  hope.  The  first  meet  is  on  Tuesday, 
and  we  have  a  hunt  breakfast  here.  I  would  like  Derry  to 
come  down  for  that,  if  you  didn't  mind." 

"It's  not  a  very  devoted  father  he  makes,  I'm  thinking. 
How  conies  it  he  leaves  the  child  here  all  the  time  with  you? 
I  suppose  if  I'd  be  carrying  him  off  with  me  to  Dublin, 

377 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

nobody  would  be  missing  him?  His  mother  is  away  from 
England,  Nurse  tells  me.  It's  attentive  parents  he  has,  poor 
baby!" 

Her  daughter  suspected  her  of  knowing  a  little  more  about 
Rosaleen's  absence  than  she  pretended.  Nurse  was  something 
of  a  gossip,  and  her  mother  not  above  listening,  she  felt  sure. 

However,  it  was  her  policy  now  to  let  her  mother  come  to 
the  point  at  which  she  was  surely  arriving,  in  her  own  circuitous 
way.  Certainly  there  had  been  no  talk  of  the  orphanage  lately, 
and  that  was  a  good  sign.  That  she  wanted  to  see  Deny  was 
even  better.  The  Duchess  felt  sure  it  was  with  the  idea  of 
asking  him  to  let  the  boy  go  back  with  her  to  Dublin  that  she 
wished  to  see  him.  But  it  really  did  not  matter  with  what  inten- 
tion she  was  inquiring  for  him.  The  Duchess  walked  warily  and 
delicately  among  the  quicksands  of  her  mother's  humors. 
She  told  her  quite  simply,  and  without  comment,  that  Derry's 
wife  had  left  him.  The  Dowager  examined,  and  cross-examined, 
her  as  to  the  cause.  Margaret  had  the  girl's  letter  to  Deny, 
as  well  as  the  one  to  herself.  She  showed  the  Dowager  both 
of  them,  and  the  Dowager  read,  and  returned  them. 

"And  I  suppose  he's  glad  to  be  rid  of  her?"  she  commented. 

"Oh,  no,  mother!  He  is  heart-broken  about  it;  Deny  is  a 
miserable  man  to-day." 

"And  why  shouldn't  he  be  miserable?  Hasn't  he  got  his 
deserts  ?"  but  there  was  no  longer  any  rancor  in  her  voice. 

"Oh,  mother!  you  don't  think  that  any  more;  you  don't 
think  poor  Deny  has  got  his  deserts  among  us!  ..." 

If  her  mother  did  not  think  so,  she  could  not  be  brought  to 
admit  it. 

Deny,  who  was  summoned  quickly  from  Scotland,  was 
warned  that  he,  too,  must  walk  warily. 

"My  mother  has  altered  very  much  since  Terence's  death, 
Deny.  You'll  hardly  know  her,  and  I'm  sure  not  .  .  .  well, 
I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  I  am  not  quite  sure  her  head  is 
as  clear  as  it  used  to  be.  She  takes  things  differently  from 
what  one  would  expect." 

"What  is  it  you're  trying  to  tell  me?" 

378 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"Nothing,  except  to  behave  as  if  nothing  has  happened,  not 
to  be  surprised  or  disturbed  at  anything  she  may  say,  or  ask 
you.  ..." 

But  there  was  nothing  to  surprise,  or  disturb,  him  when  his 
aunt  came  into  the  hall,  and  he  went  forward  to  meet  her. 

He  said  he  was  very  glad  to  see  her,  and,  because  he  thought 
she  was  looking  old  and  ill,  he  exclaimed  how  young  and  well 
she  was  seeming.  "It's  a  long  time  since  I've  seen  you,  surely!" 
he  went  on  awkwardly.  She  retorted  that  he  had  always 
known  where  she  was  to  be  found.  He  had  no  answer  ready 
for  that,  and  the  Duchess  intervened  pleasantly,  and  suggested 
he  had  had  a  long  journey,  and  perhaps  he  would  like  to  go  to 
his  room  and  change. 

At  dinner  they  talked  of  grouse,  and  something  of  to-morrow's 
meet.  The  first  meet  of  the  season  was  traditionally  at  Dunstans. 
The  Duchess  told  Deny  jestingly  that  she  was  glad  he  had  lost 
weight,  he  would  be  easier  to  mount. 

"He  is  not  a  great  figure  of  a  man,"  the  Dowager  said,  eyeing 
him  unfavorably.  She  was  trying  to  maintain  her  attitude  of 
antagonism  to  him,  but  there  was  no  antagonism  in  her  eyes 
when  she  thought  no  one  was  observing,  and  they  fell  upon  him 
unawares.  As  it  had  been  with  the  Duchess,  so  it  was  now 
with  the  Dowager.  She  could  not  keep  from  looking  at  him, 
and  remembering  how  familiar  a  feature  of  the  house  he  had 
been  in  those  days  when  they  had  all  been  happy,  and  there 
was  no  weight  at  the  back  of  her  head,  no  secrets  she  had  to  be 
keeping. 

Derry  and  Margaret  talked  during  dinner,  and  in  the  drawing- 
room  through  the  quiet  evening  that  followed.  The  Dowager 
was  listening  to  them,  although  she  sat  as  if  she  heard  nothing. 
She  was  back  in  the  days  when  he  and  Terence  and  Margaret 
had  shaken  the  old  walls  with  laughter  and  prank;  when,  as 
quite  little  boys,  they  had  gone  off  with  their  fishing  creels,  or 
their  guns,  or  on  their  rough  ponies.  She  remembered  calling 
after  them  that  they  were  to  be  careful  and  Terence  impatiently 
crying  out  to  Derry  to  "Come  on!  what  did  the  mother  think 
was  likely  to  happen  to  them?"  But  Derry  had  often  stayed  a 

379 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

minute  to  answer,  "Shure,  an'  I'll  be  looking  after  Terence  all 
the  while." 

She  had  always  known  that  he  worshiped  Terence,  would 
guard  him  with  his  own  life,  if  need  arose.  Her  hatred  and 
rancor  were  dropping  from  her  so  quickly.  What  was  that 
Margaret  and  Derry  were  telling?  Some  old  hunting  exploit 
of  wild  Terence,  when  he  had  heard  the  call  of  the  huntsman 
in  the  distance,  and  had  rushed  to  the  field  where  the  horse 
was  grazing,  leaping  on  his  back.  .  .  . 

She  broke  into  their  talk. 

"You  mind  he  was  not  twelve  years  old  then,  and  it  was 
neither  saddle  nor  bridle  he  had  ..." 

"It  wasn't  the  want  of  a  saddle  or  bridle  would  have  stopped 
Terence,  when  he  heard  the  hounds,"  Derry  ejaculated. 

She  had  not  meant  to  be  joining  in  their  talk,  but  all  the 
ice  about  her  heart  was  breaking  up,  and  it  was  true  that  the 
maggot  in  her  brain  was  breeding  butterflies. 

When  it  was  bedtime,  it  was  Derry  who  lit  her  candle,  as  he 
had  done  for  her  so  many  times. 

"I'll  walk  upstairs  with  you,"  he  said;  "we  mustn't  be 
dropping  the  candle-grease  about  here,  like  we  do  at  home." 
He  fell  so  easily  into  the  old  ways,  as  if  there  had  never  been 
bitter  feeling  between  them.  But  Derry  had  had  no  bitter 
feeling  against  her. 

"How  old  she  looks,  and  altered,"  he  said  to  Margaret  when 
he  came  downstairs  again,  "and  how  sad!  When  I  got  her  to 
her  room,  I  just  said,  'You'll  not  be  having  any  bad  feeling 
against  me  any  more,  Auntie?'" 

"Oh,  you  shouldn't  have  said  that,  Derry!  You  shouldn't 
have  reminded  her." 

"It  didn't  do  any  harm.  I  gave  her  a  kiss  with  it;  she  seemed 
very  shaky  and  frail.  Biddy  was  there,  she  said,  'Ah,  Mr. 
Derry,  and  you're  a  sight  for  sore  eyes!'  It's  all  right.  I  came 
away  quickly,  but  I  know  it's  all  [right.  Oh,  Margaret,  Mar- 
garet! what's  the  good  of  it?  What's  the  good  of  it  all,  with 
Rosaleen  not  here!" 

380 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THE  first  meet  of  the  Oakmore  Hunt  always  took  place 
at  Dunstans.  Lord  Brampton,  who  was  the  Duke's 
cousin,  was  Master  of  the  Hounds.  He  was  the  most 
eligible  bachelor  in  the  three  counties,  yet  the  most  persistent 
mothers  and  chaperons  had  given  him  up  as  hopeless  game. 
Everybody  knew  how  it  was  with  him  and  the  Duchess,  except, 
perhaps,  the  Duchess.  She  only  knew  he  was  persistently  kind 
to  her.  Hunting  was  her  one  and  only  unalloyed  pleasure, 
and  he  facilitated  her  enjoyment  of  it  in  every  possible  way, 
that  was  all  she  knew,  or  would  know,  while  the  Duke  lived, 
she  had  his  name  in  her  keeping.  Vansittart  Brampton  was 
no  seducer  of  women,  hardly  a  preux  chevalier.  He  was  a  short, 
spare  man,  with  a  cropped  red  head,  clean-shaven,  hard- 
featured,  weather-beaten,  something  over  forty,  and  not  talkative. 
But  he  had  a  genius  for  friendship,  and  was  the  most  popular 
M.  F.  H.  the  Oakmore  Hunt  had  ever  had. 

The  meet  was  at  twelve,  and  already  by  eleven,  carriages 
began  to  drive  up,  dog-carts,  and  even  the  unpopular  motor. 
In  the  field  beyond  the  gardens  there  were  grooms  leading 
horses,  some  with  side-saddles,  and  a  couple  of  small  boys,  sons 
of  a  local  farmer,  were  impatient  on  their  caracoling  ponies. 

The  Duchess  was  dressed  and  out  early,  she  was  at  her  best 
on  horseback,  one  with  her  mount.  The  fine  chestnut  she  rode 
this  morning  seemed  to  feel  the  honor  that  was  being  done  to 
him;  he  tossed  his  head  and  played  with  his  bit,  and  curvetted  at 
the  touch  of  her  light  hand  on  the  rein.  Her  dark  habit  defined 
the  lines  of  her  molded  figure;  the  red-gold  hair  was  wound  in 
plaits  under  her  womanlike  felt  hat.  These  were  the  days 
when  her  blue  eyes  still  shone  as  when  she  had  been  a  girl  in 
her  mother's  house,  and  the  color  flushed  in  her  cheeks.  Deny 
25  381 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

was  in  top-boots,  cut-away  coat,  and  white  tie.  She  had  pro- 
vided him  with  a  raking  great  bay  horse  that  promised  to  keep 
him  fully  employed.  Derry,  too,  could  sit  a  horse.  He  was 
in  a  reckless  mood  this  morning.  Sometimes  he  did  not  care 
whether  he  came  to  grief  or  not.  Without  Rosaleen  life  seemed 
to  have  lost  its  savor  for  him.  Time  had  done  nothing  to 
mitigate  his  loss. 

The  field  gathered  slowly;  now  the  grooms  with  the  led 
horses  were  being  replaced  by  pink-coated  masters,  by  ladies 
in  faultless  hunting  get-up.  The  picturesque  huntsmen  arrived 
with  the  hounds.  The  hounds  gave  tongue  causelessly,  put 
noses  to  ground,  or  sniffed  the  air,  moving  about  the  hunts- 
men. There  seemed  many  more  of  them  than  there  really 
were.  Greetings  were  exchanged,  friend  meeting  friend,  after 
long  absence,  and  there  was  much  to  be  gossiped  about  and 
discussed;  the  chances  of  the  day,  for  instance,  and  the  weather. 
Dunstans  was  always  a  sure  find.  It  was  a  true  hunting  morning, 
gray  and  soft,  the  dew  hardly  off  the  grass,  and  the  sun  behind 
the  morning  clouds.  At  twelve  to  the  minute  the  master  rode 
into  the  field.  His  first  glance  was  at  the  hounds,  but  his  second 
was  at  Margaret.  She  rode  up  to  him,  and  after  a  word  or  two, 
led  the  way  to  the  house.  Quite  a  number  of  people  followed 
them.  Those  who  had  driven  over  for  the  meet  only,  and  to 
breakfast  at  Dunstans,  would  linger  over  their  meal;  while  the 
others  took  a  glass  of  wine,  or  a  biscuit,  standing,  were  all 
impatience  to  be  off. 

Lady  Carrie  Carthew  was  among  the  latter.  She  and  Derry 
had  not  met  for  months,  not  since  they  had  been  at  Ascot 
together.  But  the  Goodwood  week  had  made  a  great  change 
in  Lady  Carrie's  prospects.  An  American  multi-millionaire 
had  been  of  the  party  she  was  with,  the  type  of  person  one  only 
meets  in  books.  In  real  life  American  multi-millionaires  have 
wives  and  children,  generally  a  divorce  or  two  to  their  names, 
and  a  whole  history  of  misdemeanor  or  fraud.  Cyrus  J.  Wood 
was  unattached,  he  had  been  too  busy  making  money  to  have 
time  for  making  history,  matrimonial  or  criminal.  Lady  Carrie 
had  heard  that  American  men  never  married  English  women, 

382 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

and  this,  combined  with  Derry's  defection,  had  given  impetus 
to  her  wooing.  For,  of  course,  it  was  she  who  wooed  Cyrus  in 
her  yellow-perilous  way,  not  he  her.  First,  by  bemoaning  her 
incapacity,  and  playing  the  fluffy  fool  that  is  usually  a  strong 
man's  objective.  Afterward,  when  she  discovered  it  was  more 
efficacious,  showing  her  real  ability.  Finally,  when  she  became 
sure  of  her  ground,  she  exhibited  a  quite  impressive  and  unique 
comprehension  of  figures  and  of  the  vagaries  of  the  American 
stock-markets.  Cyrus  J.  went  down  slowly,  he  had  been  a 
shrewd  man  until  then;  but  it  is  notorious  that  America  will  be 
the  first  to  suffer  from  the  Yellow  Peril.  The  very  last  sensation 
of  the  season  had  been  the  announcement  of  Lady  Carrie 
Carthew's  engagement.  She  had  had  no  time  to  think  of 
Deny,  and  no  need  of  him.  She  knew  from  Mossy  of  Rosaleen's 
disappearance.  But  her  new  prospects  had  lessened  her 
interest  in  Derry  and  his  affairs.  Also  she  had  resented  his 
attitude  to  her  during  that  Ascot  week  at  the  Brinmores.  She 
had  given  him  every  encouragement  and  "oaf"  was  the  name 
she  attached  to  him  when  he  proved  dense  to  her  allurements. 

She  exclaimed  at  his  altered  appearance  to-day,  standing 
up  with  her  glass  of  claret  in  her  hand.  Lady  Carrie  was 
genuine  where  hunting  was  concerned,  any  horse  could  carry 
her,  the  smaller  the  better,  if  it  were  swift;  to-day  there  was 
nothing  reminiscent  of  the  tea-gown  in  her  neat  well-cut  habit. 

"What  on  earth  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself?"  she 
asked  Derry.  "You  have  gone  to  a  shadow;  you  are  not  half 
the  size  you  were."  She  still  looked  kindly  at  him.  What  a 
fine  fellow  he  was,  even  although  he  had  grown  so  thin!  It 
was  a  pity  Cyrus  was  only  five  feet  six  or  seven,  and  the  color 
of  a  dried  pea.  Carrie  felt  suddenly  that,  after  all,  she  was 
very  fond  of  Derry  Ranmore.  There  was  no  reason  he  should 
not  help  toward  her  trousseau. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  see  you  here,  you  know.  In  a  way,  I 
suppose  you  owe  your  reconciliation  with  your  family  to  me." 

"Do  I?"  he  said.  It  was  difficult  for  him  to  respond  to  Lady 
Carrie's  cordiality.  Seeing  her,  brought  back  the  remembrance 
of  what  Mossy  had  told  him  in  the  train. 

383 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"The  Dowager  is  here,  too,  isn't  she?  I  hope  she  has  given 
up  that  absurd  orphanage  of  hers.  Well,  all's  well  that  ends 
well.  I  suppose  you  are  reconciled  to  them  all,  and  on  your 
way  to  Ranmore.  And  you've  never  congratulated  me,  although 
I'm  congratulating  you.  I  knew  it  would  all  come  right  if  she 
took  herself  out  of  the  way.  Mossy  tells  me  you've  no  idea 
where  she  is  .  .  . " 

She  took  another  sip  at  her  claret,  never  noting  how  pale 
Berry's  lips  had  gone. 

"It's  nothing  you've  got  to  congratulate  me  upon,"  he  said. 
Could  he  have  heard  what  she  said  aright? 

"Nothing!  That's  good.  Why,  you  were  always  longing 
for  your  aunt  and  cousin  to  forgive  you,  and  now,  here  you  are, 
in  the  bosom  of  your  family.  I  knew  exactly  what  was  wrong. 
The  day  I  went  to  see  your  wife,  before  Ascot,  you  know,  I 
told  her  she  had  only  got  to  make  herself  scarce  ..." 

The  Dowager  had  come  up,  and  seemed  to  be  listening. 
Lady  Carrie  gave  her  an  affable  nod,  and  went  on. 

"I  told  her  they  wouldn't  have  her  at  any  price.  I  explained 
to  her  that  she  was  standing  in  your  way." 

Deny  had  gone  pale,  now  he  got  red,  and  his  breath  came 
quickly.  He  said,  although  his  words  came  with  difficulty: 

"You,  you  told  her  that?" 

"That,  and  a  few  things  more,"  Carrie  went  on,  coolly. 
"It  was  time  something  was  done,  you  know.  You  were  all  at 
a  deadlock.  She  took  it  very  well.  ...  I  said  she  had  only 
got  to  remove  the  chain,  and  give  you  head  room.  ..." 

"Set  you  up,  Carrie  Carthew,  set  you  up!  And  what  had 
you  to  be  doing  with  Derry's  wife,  or  Deny,  either?  You  tell 
me  that.  You,  that's  Wickford's  daughter,  and  him  the  greatest 
blackguard  in  the  three  counties!"  The  Dowager's  voice  was 
shrill,  and  already  there  were  others  listening. 

Lady  Carrie  paled. 

"Has  she  gone  out  of  her  mind?  Is  she  mad?  What  does 
she  mean?  Let's  get  away,"  she  said  to  Deny. 

"Was  it  you  that  drove  my  Rosaleen  from  me!"  Derry 
stammered,  making  no  move. 

384 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"She  would  do  that,  she  would,"  the  Dowager  went  on,  never 
heeding  her  growing  audience,  or  that  the  Duchess  herself,  seeing 
something  amiss,  was  hurrying  over  to  them. 

"Isn't  it  time  we  started?"  Lady  Carrie  said  to  her  nervously, 
hastily  putting  down  her  glass. 

"A  bad  and  cruel  woman  you  are,  Carrie  Carthew,  and  a 
bad  child  you  were,  like  your  father  before  you.  .  .  .  What 
did  you  say  to  her?  What  dared  you  say  to  Derry's  wife?" 

"My  dear  Lady  Ranmore,  pray  don't  make  a  scene.  Deny 
and  I  were  great  friends.  I  knew  he  was  longing  for  his  own 
people.  ...  I  really  forget  exactly  what  I  said.  Old  mad- 
woman!" she  murmured;  but  it  was  impossible  to  get  away. 

"Up  in  Dublin  I've  heard  how  you  used,  and  misused,  Harry 
Carthew;  that  he,  who  had  been  a  sober  man  until  his  fortieth 
year,  was  a  drunkard  before  he  had  been  married  to  you  two 
years;  that  he,  who  had  been  a  saving  and  a  solvent  man,  died 
a  bankrupt,  with  his  good  name  in  the  dust.  Many  a  time  I  've 
talked  to  Terence  about  you,  and  about  your  father.  ..." 

"Mother!  mother,  dear.  ..."  The  Duchess  interposed, 
although  she  had  no  liking  for  Lady  Carthew.  She  tried  to 
draw  her  mother  away,  she  had  not  realized  what  the  scene  was 
about;  only  that  there  was  a  scene  and  the  time  inappropriate. 
It  was  Deny  now  who  startled  her,  for  his  eyes  were  bloodshot, 
and  his  voice  hoarse. 

"Margaret,  it  was  she  who  told  Rosaleen  she  was  standing 
in  my  way,  chaining  me  up." 

"Another  time,  dear,  another  time!"  But  she  could  not  still 
her  mother's  voice. 

"Haven't  I  known  you  since  you've  been  a  girl,  Carrie  Car- 
thew, always  mischief-making,  with  that  smooth  tongue  of 
yours  ?  Haven 't  I  wondered  they  tolerated  you  in  this  county, 
you  that's  caused  more  women's  tears  wantonly,  more  heart- 
aches, dissensions,  and  disunions,  than  if  you  had  been  the 
Yellow  Peril  they  name  you!  Didn't  Terence  tell  me  he  wished 
he  'd  ne  Ver  seen  you  ?  Now  it 's  Derry  you  've  made  the  unhappy 
man  he  is  to-day.  What  was  it  you  told  his  wife  ?" 

Then  all  at  once  her  voice  seemed  to  waver,  and  her  virulence. 

385 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

She  looked  from  Carrie  to  her  daughter,  and  then  at  Deny. 
She  seemed  to  have  forgotten  suddenly  what  she  was  saying, 
to  have  grown  uncertain  and  wavering.  .  .  . 

"I  wanted  to  speak  to  Berry's  wife  meself,  she  isn't  here,  is 
she  ?  .  .  .  What  was  it  I  wanted  to  ask  her  ?  About  Terence 
...  I  can't  remember  .  .  .  Berry's  wife  ...  is  Berry's 
wife  here?"  A  flush  came  over  the  old  face  and  a  film  before 
her  eyes.  Her  voice  slowed,  and  stopped,  like  a  clock  that  has 
run  down.  The  Buchess's  arm  was  about  her,  or  she  would 
have  fallen. 

"She  hit  me  on  the  head!  Someone  hit  me  on  the  head!" 
The  words  came  thickly,  incoherently,  as  she  slid  through  her 
daughter's  arms. 

Now  all  was  confusion. 

"It's  a  stroke." 

"Apoplexy." 

"Of  course  she  did  not  know  what  she  was  talking  about." 

"She  ought  not  to  have  been  allowed  to  excite  herself." 

"  Get  a  doctor,  someone,  quick !    Can 't  someone  get  a  doctor  ?" 

"Open  all  the  windows!" 

"Give  her  brandy." 

"Put  a  pillow  under  her  head." 

Lord  Brampton  and  Berry  carried  Lady  Ranmore  upstairs. 
There  were  nurses  in  the  house,  who  knew  better  than  old  Biddy 
how  to  undress  her  gently,  and  lay  her  in  her  bed.  Everything 
was  done  quickly  and  quietly,  once  they  realized  what  had 
occurred. 

Lady  Ranmore  had  had  a  stroke  of  paralysis.  But  apparently 
it  was  very  slight.  As  soon  as  it  was  seen  that  she  was  already 
recovering  consciousness  the  Buchess  expressed  her  wish  that 
the  hunt  should  proceed. 

Bownstairs,  people  were  hurrying  out  of  the  house  as  quickly 
as  possible.  Lady  Carrie  was  explaining  what  had  happened, 
explaining  it  in  her  own  way,  but  people  looked  at  her  coldly, 
or  wonderingly.  More  had  been  heard,  more  had  been  under- 
stood, or  misunderstood,  than  she  could  explain  away.  There 
had  been  ugly  stories  of  Lady  Carrie  before  this.  Berry  Ran- 

386 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

more  was  popular,  and  many  people  knew  that  his  wife  had 
left  him.  Now  it  was  all  at  once  in  the  air  that  Lady  Carrie 
was  responsible. 

It  would  be  spoken  of  everywhere,  and  it  would  have  a  far- 
reaching  effect.  Lady  Carrie  would  never  again  be  accepted 
at  her  own  valuation.  The  half-heard  words  would  be  repeated, 
and  would  stand  for  justice;  there  was  so  much  in  them  that  was 
true.  The  weal  of  the  Dowager's  words  across  Lady  Carrie's 
reputation  was  worse  than  the  weal  of  a  hunting-crop  would 
have  been  across  her  face.  Rosaleen,  had  she  but  known  it, 
had  her  vengeance  in  that  hour. 

Lady  Carrie  put  a  bold  face  on  it,  as  she  rode  with  the  hounds 
that  day,  but  she  did  not  underrate  what  had  occurred.  She 
even  decided,  before  the  hounds  had  found,  and  they  had  really 
got  going,  that  she  must  rearrange  the  scheme  for  her  wedding. 
No  chance  now  for  that  picturesque  hunt-wedding  she  had 
planned,  and  of  which  she  had  already  spoken  to  Cyrus.  She 
must  be  married  in  London.  In  those  first  quick  ten  minutes, 
over  Hallam,  and  then  in  the  Gilkes  fields,  pressing  on  the 
hounds,  without  a  break,  and  without  a  stop,  she  had  made  up 
her  mind  to  sell  her  house  here,  and  go  for  a  time  to  the  States, 
as  Cyrus  had  suggested. 

Lady  Ranmore  recovered  consciousness  completely  before 
the  evening.  She  had  some  loss  of  power  in  her  right  hand, 
and  her  mind  worked  slowly,  but  that  it  did  work  there  was  no 
doubt,  because  she  asked  where  she  was,  and  what  had  happened 
to  her.  She  thought  she  had  been  struck  on  the  head.  It  was 
a  small  blood-vessel  in  her  brain  that  had  given  way,  and  all 
the  symptoms  pointed  to  a  recovery.  Her  health  would  always 
be  precarious,  of  course,  but  the  probabilities  were  that  from 
this  first  attack  she  would  recover  completely.  Bromides  and 
quiet  were  prescribed,  nature  being  allowed  to  do  its  healing 
work;  and  the  result  was  as  had  been  predicted. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  she  remembered  things  that  had  happened 
before  her  seizure.  Her  speech  was  a  little  affected,  but  it  was 
evident  that  her  mind  was  working,  and,  to  Margaret's  aston- 
ishment, she  asked  her,  quite  as  if  it  were  an  ordinary  question, 

387 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

if  Derry's  wife  were  in  the  house.  At  the  end  of  a  fortnight 
she  was  sitting  in  her  easy-chair  by  the  window,  complaining 
of  nothing  but  the  nurse,  and  the  visits  of  the  doctor.  She  said 
she  was  quite  well.  It  was  still  a  little  difficult  to  know  how 
much  she  knew.  Margaret  began  to  suspect  it  was  more  than 
she  talked  about.  It  was  obvious,  for  instance,  that  she  liked 
the  child  brought  in  to  her  night  and  morning.  Presently  the 
Duchess  realized  that  her  mother  sat  up  in  her  easy-chair  by 
the  window  just  so  long  as  he  played  in  the  garden,  and  she 
could  follow  the  little  figure  flitting  about  in  the  distance. 
After  that  she  arranged  he  should  be  often  in  front  of  the  house, 
in  spite  of  Thompson  and  the  flower-beds. 

The  doctors  said  Lady  Ranmore  was  making  a  wonderful 
recovery,  wonderful.  The  power  was  coming  back  to  her  arm, 
and  her  speech  clearing  daily. 

"Where  is  it  that  Deny  has  been  seeking  his  wife?"  she 
asked,  abruptly,  one  day  when  the  Duchess  was  sitting  with 
her.  The  question  was  quite  unexpected,  the  subject  had  been 
naturally  avoided,  orders  having  been  issued  the  patient  was 
not  to  be  in  any  way  excited.  The  Duchess  hesitated,  but  the 
question  was  repeated.  It  was  evident  she  had  been  brooding 
upon  it,  and  therefore  it  seemed  wise  to  give  her  the  information 
she  asked. 

She  heard  of  everything  that  had  been  done,  from  the  dra- 
matic touring  companies,  to  the  private  detectives. 

"And  has  he  tried  the  Convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  where 
I  put  her  to  school  ?" 

Derry  had  come  in  while  they  were  talking,  and  now  stood 
behind  the  easy-chair,  listening,  with  his  heart  beating  in  his 
ears  when  he  found  what  they  were  discussing. 

"The  fool  that  I  am!  the  fool!  I  never  thought  of  it." 

"He  has  not  been  there?  Nor  to  the  farm  in  Tralee,  to  her 
aunt,  O 'Daly's  sister,  the  farm  from  which  Dan  Maguire  was 
evicted.  ..." 

Derry  had  never  even  heard  of  the  farm  in  Tralee.  It  was 
new  hope  that  was  beating  up  from  his  heart. 

"And  if  he  hasn't  tried  the  farm,  nor  the  convent,  has  he 

388  • 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

been  over  to  Ireland,  and  seen  Father  Prout,  who  was  the  con- 
fessor at  the  convent?  Rosaleen  was  a  Protestant  born,  and 
she  kept  her  religion,  as  I  promised  her  mother  on  her  death-bed 
that  she  should,  but  she  would  have  known  where  to  go  for 
kindness." 

Derry's  heart  was  leaping;  it  was  as  if  the  sun  was  dazzling 
before  his  eyes.  He  had  never  thought  of  the  convent,  he  had 
never  heard  of  the  aunt,  Father  Prout  was  a  new  name  to  him. 
It  was  England  they  had  been  searching,  from  London  to  the 
Land's  End. 

"I  never  thought  of  her  going  back  to  Ireland,  without  me 
by  her  side,  me  that  brought  her  over  .  .  .  and  putting  the 
water  between  her,  and  me,  and  the  boy!"  he  exclaimed  inco- 
herently. But  now  he  felt  he  had  been  blind  and  dull,  now  he 
was  mad  to  be  off.  He  would  find  her,  he  would  send  no  one, 
but  go  himself.  The  voice  of  the  invalid  in  the  easy-chair  was 
as  the  voice  of  an  oracle  to  him. 

He  would  go  over  to  Ireland  that  very  night;  soft,  gracious 
Ireland  that  was  guarding  her  for  him.  He'd  never  leave  it 
again,  but  with  her  by  his  side.  He  felt  like  the  Chinese  prisoner 
must  have  felt,  who,  after  languishing  for  many  years  behind 
the  iron  doors,  suddenly  found  they  had  never  been  barred,  and 
all  the  time  he  had  been  free  to  turn  the  handle,  and  walk  out. 
It  was  Ireland  he  ought  to  have  been  searching,  while  Mossy 
had  been  investigating  touring  companies  in  England,  America, 
and  the  colonies.  Mossy  Leon  never  thought  but  that  a  woman 
who  left  her  husband  and  had  her  living  to  earn,  a  woman  as 
beautiful  as  Rosaleen  Ranmore,  for  instance,  would  be  found 
as  an  aspirant  for  stage  honors.  All  his  fears  had  been  lest  she 
should  have  fallen  into  bad  hands,  among  agents,  or  derelict 
entrepreneurs.  But  Derry  knew,  all  at  once,  that  he  had  been 
mad  to  listen  to  him.  Of  course,  she  had  gone  back  to  the  dear 
country.  To-night  he  would  follow  her,  with  never  a  doubt 
but  that  he  would  find  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

DERRY  sped  upon  his  quest  with  fresh  hope,  and  fresh 
life.  Never  had  he  longed  more  acutely  for  his  wife, 
never  it  seemed  had  he  such  need  of  her.  He  went 
first  to  the  Convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart  at  Brandon.  The 
convent  lay  on  a  rising  slope;  it  was  built  of  gray  stone,  square 
and  solid,  high  above  Kinsale  Harbor,  surrounded  by  rich 
pasture-land,  set  in  the  generous  green  of  its  wide  gardens.  To- 
day when  Derry  drove  up  in  hot  haste,  there  were  girl-children 
playing  about  the  lawn  in  their  dark  uniform  dresses,  as  Rosaleen, 
in  her  day,  must  have  played,  flitting  among  the  trees.  He  saw 
them  here  in  couples  with  arms  entwined,  and  there  in  groups; 
now  a  solitary  figure  detached  from  the  others.  His  heart 
went  out  to  them  all,  for  it  was  among  such  as  these  that  his 
Rosaleen  had  grown  up.  He  pictured  them  all  as  something 
of  what  she  had  been  and  was,  gracious  girl-children,  growing 
to  beautiful  womanhood,  helpful  and  loyal  and  loving.  All 
this  she  had  been  to  him,  his  dark  Rosaleen.  He  never  dreamed 
of  disappointment.  She  was  surely  here  with  the  Mother 
Superior.  How  his  heart  leapt! 

Mother  Superior,  interviewed  in  that  stiff  oak  parlor,  with 
its  ordered  chairs  in  a  row,  its  table  without  a  cloth,  and  for  only 
ornament  the  crucifix  over  the  mantlepiece,  showed  angular  in 
her  long  black  robes  and  white  coif,  with  the  cross  hanging  on 
the  brown  rosary.  It  seemed  she  had  only  been  appointed  a 
few  short  weeks.  She  had  no  memory  of  one  Rosaleen  O  'Daly, 
nor  knowledge  of  Rosaleen  Ranmore.  She  had  no  human  inter- 
est in  his  errand,  nor  did  she  show  commiseration  for  the  bitter 
look  of  disappointment  and  misery  that  clouded  over  his  face. 
She  was  set  apart  for  the  service  of  the  Church,  she  had  no  other 
service  or  sympathy  to  give.  As  for  Father  Prout,  he,  she 

390 


believed,  was  in  Rome.  Father  Maguire  was  now  the  confessor 
to  the  convent.  She  was  in  haste  for  Derry  to  leave,  it  was 
time  for  matins. 

Father  Maguire  was  portly,  his  tonsure  had  spread,  until 
now  only  a  little  scant  stubble  of  gray  hair  lay  between  it  and 
the  creases  of  fat  at  the  back  of  the  neck,  between  it  and  the 
benevolent  forehead.  He  did  not  know  who  this  gentleman 
was  that  come  hot-foot  to  his  house  from  the  convent;  but  he 
saw  that  he  was  tired  and  eager,  although  prepared  now  for 
disappointment,  and  unhappy. 

Father  Maguire  was  standing  at  his  garden  gate  when  Derry 
came  up.  He  would  not  hear  nor  answer  any  questions,  until 
he  had  led  the  way  into  the  parlor.  Then  his  guest  must  have 
wine  and  cake,  or  a  glass  of  milk,  after  his  drive;  but,  when 
Father  Maguire  heard  Derry 's  story,  or  an  outline  of  it,  he  was 
full  of  comforting  words. 

Derry  said  that  he  was  searching  for  his  wife,  who  had  left 
him  under  a  misapprehension,  and  who,  he  thought  might 
perhaps  have  sought  shelter  under  the  roof  that  had  nurtured 
her  childhood.  Father  Maguire  was  sure  she  had  not  written 
to  Father  Prout,  all  Father  Prout 's  letters  came  here  first,  and 
were  forwarded  by  him,  or  kept,  as  their  contents  suggested. 
For  Father  Maguire  was  here  temporarily,  holding  his  office 
only  as  trustee  for  Father  Prout.  He  knew  positively  there  had 
been  no  letter,  and  no  visit,  but  Lord  Ranmore — for  now  he 
knew  his  visitor's  name — must  not  be  disheartened  by  that, 
for  she  was  sure  to  be  found  soon,  and  quite  safe.  Derry  had 
had  a  wild  thought,  when  he  heard  Father  Prout  was  in  Rome, 
of  going  over  there  and  wresting  information  from  him.  The 
idea  died  in  its  birth. 

Now  it  was  only  the  farm  at  Tralee  that  lay  between  him  and 
despair.  He  did  not  want  to  eat  or  drink  or  rest,  he  wanted 
only  to  get  to  Tralee. 

Father  Maguire  made  inquiries  about  trains  and  connections, 
but  persuaded  him  to  lie  in  his  house  that  night,  since  he  could 
neither  walk  nor  fly,  and  there  were  no  trains  that  left  until 
to-morrow.  There  is  no  hospitality  like  the  Irish  hospitality. 

391 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Father  Maguire  was  delighted  to  have  a  guest,  and  the  particular 
O  'Toole  that  waited  upon  them,  an  ancient  widow  woman,  who 
had  her  husband's  pedigree  at  her  gnarled  old  fingers'  ends, 
was  as  good  a  cook  as  is  to  be  found  in  the  south  of  Ireland, 
although  that  may  not  be  saying  very  much. 

Deny  was  disheartened  and  tired,  and  eager  to  be  seeking 
further,  although  now  he  was  depressed  with  misgiving,  and  no 
longer  was  sure  that  on  the  morrow  he  would  hold  Rosaleen  in 
his  arms,  as  the  priest  had  predicted.  Meanwhile,  he  was  fed 
with  bacon  and  potatoes,  and  cauliflower  that  came  out  of  the 
garden  and  was  just  ripe  for  cutting;  also  biscuits,  cheese  and 
radishes.  Later  on,  there  was  a  glass  of  hot  whisky  and  water, 
mixed  by  Father  Maguire  himself,  to  help  Derry  to  sleep.  All 
the  time  there  had  been  kindly,  comforting  talk  either  addressed 
to  him,  or  between  his  host  and  the  relict  of  the  four  hundred 
and  seventieth  O 'Toole,  "in  direct  descent,  mind  you,"  who 
discussed  the  position,  and  who  were  full  of  optimism.  "Where 
should  she  have  gone  but  to  the  farm;  he  would  find  her  there 
for  sure  on  the  morrow,  and  wouldn't  her  heart  leap  to  see 
him!  ..." 

Father  Maguire  had  a  sense  of  humor,  and  drew  his  house- 
keeper out  to  amuse  his  guest.  It  was  a  king  her  departed 
husband  would  have  been  in  his  own  rights,  this  last  of  the 
O  'Tooles,  if  the  murdering  Saxons,  and  the  rebellion,  and  a  few 
other  things,  had  not  intervened.  Derry  tried  to  repay  all  that 
was  being  done  for  him  by  sympathizing  with  the  throneless 
O  'Toole,  and  answering  the  twinkle  in  Father  Maguire 's  eye;  but 
really  he  was  only  thinking  how  early  he  could  get  away. 

He  was  up  betimes  the  next  morning,  but  not  before  his  host. 
He  heard  that  the  outside  car  had  been  ordered,  and  would  be 
round  in  no  time  at  all.  He  was  told  that  the  train  would  be 
waiting  for  him  at  Dunmanway,  and  from  Dunmanway  he'd 
get  easily  to  Bantry.  Then  it  was  but  a  step,  surely,  from 
Bantry  to  Killarney;  and  from  Killarney  to  Tralee  he  could 
travel  in  half  a  day. 

There  was  breakfast  ready  for  him  before  he  went,  and  a 
basket  with  sandwiches  and  cake  was  thrust  into  his  hands  at  the 

392 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

last  moment.  There  was  the  heartfelt  "God-speed"  from  the 
priest,  and  a  wish,  from  both  of  them,  that  his  journey  would 
be  successful.  Father  Maguire  asked  a  blessing  on  his  journey, 
and  the  widow  of  the  O  'Toole  echoed  it.  Being  an  Irishman 
himself,  Deny  knew  better  than  to  offer  them  anything  for  their 
hospitality  save  thanks,  and  a  wring  of  the  hand  for  the  priest; 
but  they  had  lightened  his  wearisome  journey  with  their  kind- 
ness. Again  he  pictured  himself  coming  up  with  Rosaleen  at 
the  journey's  end. 

"Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meeting."  This  snatch  of  quota- 
tion, heard  he  knew  not  where,  came  back  to  him,  and  lilted 
in  his  brain,  hopefully,  while  he  was  in  the  slow  train  between 
D  unman  way  and  Bantry. 

At  Bantry  he  found  there  were  no  trains  at  all  to  Tralee. 

He  was  offered  a  passage  in  a  boat,  which  unfortunately  was 
bound  for  somewhere  quite  different.  Outside  cars  were 
pressed  upon  him,  with  spavined  horses,  and  eager  drivers.  He 
was  persuaded  to  get  into  slow  local  trains  that  led  nowhere, 
hearing  always  too  late  that  by  some  other  way  or  route  he  could 
have  saved  time  and  fatigue.  He  was  being  constantly  mis- 
directed, and  always  encouraged;  everyone  seemed  to  want  to 
detain  him  with  desultory  talk.  The  statement  that  it  was 
"but  a  step"  led  him  from  one  fatigue  to  another.  He  was 
nearly  two  days  getting  from  Bandon  to  Tralee.  Afterward  he 
found  it  could  have  been  accomplished  in  a  few  hours. 

And  when  he  got  to  Tralee,  it  was  only  to  hear  that  Widow 
O 'Brian's  farm,  she  that  was  O 'Daly's  sister,  was  not  at  Tralee 
at  all,  but  at  Listowel;  and  strongly  they  advised  him  not  to  go 
there.  For  she  and  her  niece  that  was  staying  with  her  were 
surely  being  boycotted.  Widow  O 'Brian's  farm  was,  rightly 
speaking,  Dan  Maguire 's  farm. 

Deny  had  hard  work  to  get  away  from  the  inn  at  Tralee 
without  hearing  a  complete  history  of  the  feud  between  Dan 
Maguire  and  Widow  O 'Brian.  It  was  all  about  a  bit  of  land 
that  did  not  amount  to  half  a  dozen  Irish  acres.  It  had  led  the 
two  belligerents,  and  their  respective  sympathizers  into  unheard 
of  raids  and  reprisals.  The  feud  between  Dan  Maguire  and 

393 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Widow  O 'Brian  was  the  topic  of  the  whole  country-side,  but 
now  things  were  getting  serious.  For  Dan's  rick  had  been 
fired,  and  there  was  talk  of  cattle-maimers,  and  one  of  the 
widow's  men  had  been  shot  at  from  behind  a  hedge.  All 
Tralee  congregated  in  the  public-house  to  tell  him  about  the 
feud  and  the  farm,  once  the  news  got  about  that  there  was  a 
gentleman  inquiring. 

But  the  only  word  of  it  Deny  heeded  was  that  the  widow  had 
a  niece  staying  with  her. 

Widow  O  'Brian 's  farm  was  as  little  like  an  English  homestead 
as  the  fair  domain  of  Dunstans  was  like  the  wild  disorder,  and 
picturesque  ruin,  of  Castle  Ranmore.  Deny  saw  broken 
hedges,  and  a  field  that  seemed  to  be  bearing  only  a  fine  crop  of 
stones.  It  was  a  cloudy  November  day,  murky  and  lowering. 
Turkeys  and  scraggy  fowls,  with  scraggier,  scuttling  chickens, 
made  the  foreground  of  what  might  have  been  a  cattle-pen,  but 
turned  out  to  be  a  mean  stone  house,  standing  too  high  for  its 
width,  although  of  only  two  floors.  The  front  was  as  flat  as  an 
Italian  house  in  poor  quarters,  without  any  ornament  at  all 
of  portico  or  veranda.  There  were  weeds,  or  cabbages,  about 
the  front  door,  and  lines  with  clothes  hanging  out  to  dry.  Some- 
where in  the  immediate  vicinity  there  must  have  been  pigs, 
there  was  a  muck-heap  close  against  the  side  of  the  house,  its 
aroma  reaching  him  where  he  stood.  Was  this  where  she  had 
sheltered  ? 

Rosaleen  saw  him  coming  a  mile  away,  it  seemed.  Who 
else  was  there  who  would  drive  up  like  that,  and  get  down  so 
quickly,  and  shout  so  lustily  ?  Jim  and  John  O  'Moro,  and  the 
boys,  and  all  of  them,  threw  down  what  they  were  doing,  and 
ran  to  see  what  the  bother  was  about,  expecting  Dan  Maguire, 
with  a  fine  skirmish  on  the  way.  Rosaleen  had  been  working  in 
the  field  in  her  scant  cotton  dress,  with  the  big,  flapping  bonnet, 
cotton,  too,  that  protected  her  head,  and  covered  her  white  face. 
Deny  had  not  seen  her,  for  all  his  anxious,  roving  eyes;  but  she 
had  seen  him.  He  had  come  in  pursuit  of  her.  How  her 
heart  stopped  beating,  and  then  went  racing! 

At  first  she  was  for  running  away  and  hiding,  then  she  was 

394 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

for  running  forward,  and  now  for  standing  still.  Her  legs 
wouldn't  carry  her,  and  she  could  neither  run  nor  stand.  It 
seemed  no  time  at  all  since  she  had  first  seen  his  figure  in  the 
distance,  and  her  heart  had  leapt,  and  stopped  beating,  and 
started  again  at  racing  speed,  yet  here  he  was,  already  out  here 
in  the  field.  For  a  moment  she  neither  saw  nor  heard  anything: 
"And  it's  yourself!"  she  thought  she  heard  him  say.  "Is  it 
yourself?  Oh,  God!" 

She  had  not  thought  there  was  so  much  happiness  in  the 
world  as  to  stand  here,  with  his  arms  about  her,  and  know  that 
his  heart  was  beating  as  fast  as  hers,  here  against  her  own. 
It  wasn't  November  at  all,  and  no  rain  was  beginning  to  come 
down.  It  must  be  spring,  with  the  birds  singing,  she  heard 
them;  it  wasn't  anything  else  at  all  she  heard. 

Neither  Deny  nor  she  heeded  the  gaping,  curious  little  crowd 
that  gathered,  open-eyed  and  wondering,  about  them  where 
they  stood,  and  presently  began  to  throw  sentences  to  each 
other,  and  exclamations.  But  the  Irish  peasant  has  an  extraor- 
dinary tact;  the  people  seemed  to  melt  away,  to  dissolve  in  the 
rain  and  mist  which  Rosaleen  never  saw  at  all,  but  which  was 
there  all  the  time. 

"How  did  you  think  of  finding  me  here?" 

"How  could  you  leave  me?" 

But  feeling  came  too  quick  for  query,  it  was  hot  in  Derry's 
lips,  and  in  the  arms  he  was  holding  round  her,  it  was  deep  in 
Rosaleen's  eyes,  and  at  last  he  could  read  what  was  in  them. 

"How  could  you  do  it?" 

"But  I  was  between  you  and  Ranmore." 

"If  it  was  between  me  and  Paradise  you'd  stood,  wouldn't 
I  have  given  up  Paradise?" 

And  she  had  never  known  that  he  cared  for  her,  only  that 
he  had  married  her  out  of  pity!  Now  she  let  happiness  surge 
over  her  like  a  warm  wind,  scented  with  flowers,  a  wind  that 
excited  her  pulses,  flushed  her  eyes  and  cheeks,  took  away  her 
breath,  intoxicated  her. 

"It's  yourself  that  was  caring  for  me  all  the  time?" 

"But  what  have  you  been  thinking?" 

395 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"I  thought  ..." 

And  then  he  caught  her  to  him  again,  and  she  was  too  close 
for  thinking. 

The  oblivion  to  their  surroundings  lasted  a  long  time,  but 
they  found  themselves  in  the  shanty  presently:  the  cottage  was 
little  but  that,  and  the  smell  of  the  pigs  pursued  them. 

Then  he  did  not  wait  at  all,  he  was  quite  beyond  talk,  and 
he  wanted  no  explanations.  With  one  hand  he  pulled  at  the 
string  of  her  bonnet,  until  it  fell  back  behind  her  hair,  with  the 
other  he  held  her  face  up,  and  looked  again  and  again  into  her 
eyes,  until  they  fell  beneath  his,  and  she  blushed  and  blushed. 
Then  he  laid  his  lips  upon  hers,  and  both  his  arms  around  her 
and  kissed  and  kissed. 

What  talk  need  there  be  between  them,  now  he  had  got  her 
for  himself  again?  He  questioned  her,  and  never  listened  to 
the  answer.  It  wasn't  Lady  Carrie's  name  he  wanted  upon 
her  lips,  but  his  own.  She  stammered  out  something  of  what 
Lady  Carrie  had  said,  but  words  were  never  an  easy  medium 
for  Rosaleen. 

"I'll  never  let  go  of  you,"  he  said.  "You'll  never  be  out  of 
the  reach  of  my  arm  again.  It's  not  fit  to  be  trusted  you  are.!' 
He  laid  his  lips  on  her  hair.  "And  how  I've  hungered  for  you! 
And  you  say  you  never  knew  that  I  cared!  And  how  is  it  then 
that  I've  never  told  you?  Don't  talk,  it's  your  lips  on  me  own 
I'm  wanting,  I  can't  believe  it's  true  yet,  that  I've  found  you 
and  that  you're  here  in  my  arms." 

He  whispered  into  her  ear  that  he  did  not  want  to  know  why 
she  had  left  him,  he  only  wanted  to  stand  here  holding  her 
against  him.  He  would  never  let  her  go  again.  Another  long, 
long  kiss  he  must  have,  on  her  lips  this  time.  What  were  words 
between  them? 

This  state  of  affairs  lasted  until  Rosaleen's  aunt,  Mrs.  O'Brian, 
came  home,  full  of  exclamation  and  surprise,  but  indomitable 
hospitality. 

"An'  hasn't  she  offered  you  so  much  as  a  cup  of  tea,  or  the 
taste  of  the  pot?  To  think  of  it!  And  come  all  the  way  from 
Tralee  to  find  her!" 

396 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

She  was  very  flustered,  and  full  of  the  "paper"  she  had  got 
against  Dan  Maguire,  and  all  that  had  happened.  But  that  her 
niece's  husband  had  had  neither  bite  nor  sup  in  her  house  was 
the  immediate  thing  that  mattered.  Not  because  he  was  Lord 
Ranmore;  it  would  have  been  the  same  if  he'd  been  John 
Moro,  or  Dennis  O'Flanagan.  She  busied  herself  over  the 
peat-fire,  talking  and  exclaiming  all  the  time. 

Deny  was  all  haste  to  carry  his  newly  found  wife  off  with 
him,  but  he  had  to  wait  for  the  meal  that  was  being  prepared, 
which  he  shared,  by  the  way,  with  the  driver  of  the  outside 
car,  whom  Mrs.  O'Brian  "couldn't  be  thinking  to  lave  outside 
there  with  nothing  in  his  stummick  but  the  rain,"  that  now 
was  coming  down  heavily.  During  the  meal  he  heard  first 
how  Rosaleen  had  come  to  the  farm,  and  the  surprise  it  had 
been. 

"I  hadn't  seen  her  since  she  was  a  baby,  since  me  poor 
brother  was  killed,  and  I  went  all  the  way  to  Dunmanway  only 
to  hear  that  her  ladyship  was  taking  care  of  the  child,  bringing 
her  up  to  be  a  lady,  and  a  companion  to  herself  when  she  was 
old  enough." 

Something  was  said  about  the  convent,  and  the  surprise  it 
was  that  her  ladyship  had  carried  out  her  promise  that  Rosaleen 
should  remain  a  Protestant.  There  was  a  whole,  long,  running 
story  of  how  the  O'Dalys  came  to  be  Protestants,  and  about 
Rosaleen's  English  mother.  Derry  scarcely  listened;  he  was 
watching  Rosaleen,  thinking  how  beautiful  she  was,  and  reading 
now  quite  easily  that  it  was  love  of  himself  that  filled  her  eyes 
and  heart. 

That  her  niece  had  made  a  grand  marriage,  and  then  come 
back  to  the  farm  at  Tralee,  and  asked  to  be  taken  in,  seemed 
to  have  made  very  little  impression  on  Mrs.  O'Brian.  Wasn't 
she  her  own  brother's  child?  Rosaleen  had  her  quiet  word  of 
gratitude  for  the  home  that  had  been  given  her  without  question, 
but  Mrs.  O'Brian  brushed  that  aside.  She  talked  endlessly 
about  herself  and  Dan  Maguire,  and  it  was  to  that  the  man 
who  drove  the  outside  car  wanted  to  listen.  He  would  go  back 
to  Tralee  primed  with  the  very  latest  intelligence. 
26  397 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Deny  controlled  his  impatience  as  well  as  he  was  able;  but 
all  he  wanted  to  do  was  to  get  back  quickly  to  the  town,  to 
send  a  telegram  to  Dunstans,  and  be  alone  with  his  wife. 

They  were  too  late  for  trains  at  Tralee,  and  they  lay  that 
night  at  the  inn,  where  the  innkeeper,  and  the  boots,  the  osier 
and  the  shock-headed  boy,  who  was  supposed  to  assist  every- 
body, but  who  was  in  everybody's  way,  took  the  deepest  interest 
in  them,  though  not  more  interest  than  they  displayed  in  the 
Maguire-O'Brian  feud.  It  was  the  one  comedy  of  the  country- 
side, all  they  had  to  amuse  them.  The  rick-burning  and  the 
cattle-maiming  were  really  imported  melodrama. 

The  innkeeper's  wife  wanted  to  tell  the  whole  story  over  again 
while  she  was  serving  them  with  supper,  but  it  was  Rosaleen's 
story,  and  his  own,  Deny  wanted  to  hear,  and  to  tell,  and  he 
rid  himself  of  her  volubility  as  soon  as  was  possible. 

It  was  long  and  sweet  in  the  telling,  lasting  far  through  the 
night,  into  the  dawn  of  the  morning. 

"You  thought  it  was  out  of  pity  I'd  married  you?  It  was 
only  the  pity  made  me  dare  to  ask  it.  I'd  loved  you  from  the 
first  moment  my  eyes  fell  upon  you." 

"And  how  could  I  know?" 

"But  who  could  be  seeing  you  without  loving  you?  Lie 
dose." 

"  But  it's  me  that's  only  a  peasant.   ..." 

"And  it's  me  that's  only  your  lover.  Put  your  heart  against 
my  heart  and  your  lips  to  my  lips.  ..." 

"I  was  between  you  and  Ranmore." 

"And  now  you're  between  me  and  the  world!  You'll  never 
get  away  again.  Lie  closer.  How  came  you  not  to  know? 
I  thought  I  told  you  all  the  time.  The  sweet  breath  of  you! 
.  .  .  don't  stir.  And  how  much  is  it  you  love  me  ?" 

"Enough  to  leave  you.     It  tore  me  heart  out  by  the  roots." 

"You'll  not  be  doubting  again?  You  feel  how  close  I'm 
holding  you." 

"You  have  never  loved  anyone  but  me?  Breathe  it  to  me 
in  me  mouth,  it's  that  I'm  thirsting  to  hear." 

"I'd  not  know  what  love  was,  without  you'd  taught  it  me. 

398 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

I'd  spend  my  days  in  cold  and  shadow,  thinking  of  you  in  the 
sunshine.  I'd  kiss  the  place  your  feet  have  trod,  many  a  time 
I've  kissed  where  you  walked." 

"And  it  was  only  of  me  you  were  thinking,  when  I've  seen 
you  sad  ?" 

"Only  of  you.  And  that  I  wasn't  worthy  of  you;  I  wasn't 
fit." 

"  You're  fit  for  a  queen!  Don't  think  to  take  your  lips  away 
for  a  minute.  It's  husband  and  wife  we  are,  thank  God!" 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THEY  went  as  far  as  Killarney,  and  lingered  there,  honey- 
mooning. Deny  had  to  have  his  re-found  wife  to 
himself  for  a  while.  It  seemed  that  only  now  had  they 
completely  found  each  other.  Something  had  been  missing 
from  the  fullness  of  their  lives  together,  some  completion  of 
confidence  or  understanding.  He  had  to  realize  how  little 
Terence  had  ever  counted  with  her,  save  for  what  she  had 
suffered  through  him,  and  that  from  the  first  it  was  he,  and  he 
only,  who  had  held  her  heart. 

He  learned  this  during  long  mornings,  when  the  gray  mists 
hung  low  against  the  mountains,  whose  blue  tops  lost  themselves 
in  the  darker  skies.  He  learned  it  when  the  lake  before  them 
lay  mist-shrouded,  and  only  the  patter  of  the  rain  broke  the 
silence  of  the  deserted  grounds  of  the  hotel.  They  felt  they 
were  all  in  all  to  each  other  for  evermore,  when  the  shadows 
were  purple  in  the  cold  evenings  that  fell  so  quickly,  and  the 
wind  soughed  through  the  stripped  autumn  trees  about  them. 
Their  feet  sank  in  the  sodden  ground,  deep  among  the  fallen 
leaves  of  the  year's  decaying.  For  they  had  caught  Killarney 
in  its  most  sombre  mood,  and  all  the  beauties  of  its  scenery 
were  shrouded  in  the  melancholy  of  weeping  skies  and  waning 
days.  Rosaleen  had  ever  a  streak  of  melancholy  in  her,  her 
womanhood  had  been  born  in  bitter  travail;  never  could  she 
forget  the  manner  of  its  birth 

Unveiling  her  soul  to  her  husband,  that  fearful  and  trembling 
soul,  she  let  him  see  that  it  had  emerged  from  tribulation,  and 
was  as  a  fitful  light  that  came  and  went,  swayed  by  his  every 
breath.  It  was  he  that  had  kept  it  alive.  Now  it  would  burn 
steadily,  and  ever  more  brightly.  In  the  dust  Terence  had 
stamped  her,  and  from  the  dust  Deny  had  raised  her.  She 
thought  of  this  always,  but  Deny  could  teach  her  there  was  no 

400 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

raising,  for  nothing  essential  had  been  trampled.  The  gray 
days  and  nights  closed  softly  around  them,  and  ever  the  skies 
wept,  yet  beyond  the  gray  days  was  the  sure  promise  of  a  rose- 
lit  dawn.  Always  amid  the  gray  and  the  shadows,  they  felt 
the  sun  would  shine  out. 

They  lingered  in  Killarney  eight  or  ten  days.  Then  the  word 
came  for  which  they  had  waited,  and  they  started  for  home. 
The  shabby  family  coach  met  them  at  the  station,  and  they 
turned  under  that  carved  stone  gate,  set  so  strangely  at  the 
entrance  to  the  park.  They  skirted  the  woods,  on  the  left  lay 
the  chapel,  with  the  stone  mausoleum  beyond  it.  Now  Castle 
Ranmore  itself  lay  before  them,  the  great  pile,  with  its  turret 
and  towers  half  fallen  in,  and  in  ruins,  with  the  scattered  masonry 
and  the  ivy  overgrowing  old  walls.  There  were  no  roses,  al- 
though even  in  November  the  green  of  the  grass  that  grew  breast 
high,  where  in  England  would  have  been  ordered  lawn,  was 
rich  and  vivid.  If  it  was  neglect  that  they  read  in  wild  gardens 
and  in  the  front  of  the  new  stables,  where  a  water-pipe  had 
burst,  and  already  green  fungi  had  started  to  run  along  the 
damp,  it  was  a  picturesque  and  beautiful  neglect. 

"Isn't  the  green  of  it  dazzling!  isn't  it  beautiful  it's  looking 
in  the  sunset!  Oh!  my  Rosaleen,  to  be  bringing  you  home  with 
me  here !" 

Berry's  heart  was  so  full,  some  of  it  came  spontaneously 
through  his  lips. 

"They'll  be  here,  Deny,  I'm— I'm  afraid." 

"Hold  tight  to  me  hand,  don't  be  afraid  of  anything.  But 
it's  Ranmore  we've  come  to?" 

"What  will  they  say  to  me?" 

"Me  aunt's  but  an  invalid,  and  it's  Margaret  will  be  welcom- 
ing you;  there's  nothing  to  fear.  Shall  I  tell  him  to  stop?  Will 
we  be  walking  up  to  the  house  ?  You  mind  the  woods  .  .  .  ?" 

"Yes,  let  us  get  out,  let  us  walk." 

They  walked  quickly.  The  time  had  been,  the  time  would 
come  again,  when  they  would  love  to  linger.  But  Deny  was 
impatient  to  be  in  the  house,  and  it  seemed  to  Rosaleen  that  her 
ordeal  was  all  to  come. 

401 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

They  were  nearly  there,  the  carriage  had  preceded  them, 
and  was  standing  at  the  door,  when  she  said,  with  white  lips  that 
trembled  a  little: 

"Deny!  do  they  know?" 

"Don't  be  speaking  of  it.     Margaret  knows." 

"And  his  mother?" 

"Knows  nothing.  Be  still  now!  Don't  I  see  them  through 
the  trees?" 

"Does  she  still  think  it  was  the  saint  he  was,  and  the  young 
sun-god?" 

"She's  still  thinking  it." 

"And  what  must  I  do?  What  will  I  say  to  her  ...  me 
that  waited  on  her.  Derry  ?" 

Her  courage  gave  way  all  at  once,  gave  way  completely. 
She  wasn't  Lady  Ranmore  at  all,  she  was  only  the  poor  girl  to 
whom  they  had  been  so  good.  A  panic  seized  her,  she  said  she 
could  not  go  on.  He  took  her  into  the  shelter  of  his  arms,  and 
talked  to  her  and  persuaded  her,  and  comforted  her.  He  said 
again  and  again  it  was  only  a  girl  she  had  been  .  .  .  and 
wasn't  she  the  heart  of  his  life  ?  She  let  herself  be  comforted 
presently,  and  went  on  with  a  little  new  courage,  a  little  more 
confidence;  it  wasn't  much  further  they  had  to  go. 

"Derry,  wouldn't  it  be  to  Sonny  it  would  all  be  belonging, 
and  not  us  at  all,  if  they  knew?" 

"No." 

Terence's  act  had  placed  Terence's  son  outside  all  human 
rights  and  relationships,  it  was  Derry  who  had  restored  them  to 
him.  Only  as  Derry's  son  could  little  Terence  inherit  his  own, 
Derry  explained  it  as  well  as  he  was  able. 

"And  it's  you  that  has  given  it  back  to  him!" 

He  had  done  his  best;  no  man  can  do  more. 

The  Dowager  had  been  fatigued  from  the  journey,  and  had 
gone  to  her  room.  The  Duchess  was  awaiting  them  on  the 
terrace.  She  called  out  to  them  as  they  came  slowly  in  sight. 

"You  must  hurry,  or  the  tea  will  be  getting  cold.  I  told  them 
to  wait  with  the  cakes  until  they  heard  the  carriage  drive  up;  and 
that  was  ten  minutes  ago!  Deny,  how  well  you're  looking!" 

402 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

She  kissed  Rosaleen;  stooped,  and  kissed  her  quickly.  "You've 
done  him  good  already;  he  has  quite  a  color  in  his  cheeks. 
Rosaleen,  after  tea  you  must  go  up  and  see  my  mother.  She's 
been  asking  for  you.  And  you  will  want  to  see  the  boy.  Oh! 
that's  right;  here  he  comes.  I  told  Nurse  to  be  on  the  watch. 
Well,  haven't  I  taken  care  of  him  for  you  ?" 

The  Duchess  behaved  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  as  if  it 
were  all  as  simple  and  natural  as  possible;  as  if  Rosaleen  had 
never  waited  upon  the  Dowager,  nor  run  away  after  Terence 
had  died,  and  now  come  back  to  be  Lady  Ranmore;  as  if  it  were 
all  ordinary  and  natural.  The  color  that  had  left  Rosaleen's 
lips  came  back  to  them. 

"Oh!  but  it's  beautiful  he  looks!  And  how  he's  grown! 
Indeed,  and  indeed,  it's  the  grand  care  you've  taken  of  him ! " 
she  exclaimed. 

Then  came  tea,  with  Sonny  chattering;  he  had  learned  so 
many  new  words  and  ways,  he  was  on  his  best  behavior,  but 
he  seemed  to  be  on  wires  all  the  time.  Now  here,  now  there, 
darting  about  the  room,  and  filling  up  any  little  awkwardness, 
or  pauses,  in  the  talk,  though  the  Duchess  took  care  there 
should  be  little  pause,  or  awkwardness.  It  was  she  who  sug- 
gested that  Rosaleen  should  carry  Sonny  off  to  the  nursery, 
and  that  Derry  should  see  Mike,  and  Pat,  and  Peter  McCreagh, 
who  were  all  waiting  to  welcome  him.  She  told  her  which  rooms 
had  been  set  aside  for  nurseries  for  Sonny. 

"They  are  near  my  mother's;  they  are  Terence's  old  rooms. 
You'll  make  your  own  arrangements,  of  course,  when  you've 
had  time  to  look  around  you;  but,  for  the  present,  he's  in  the 
west  wing,  near  my  mother." 

The  tact  with  which  she  acknowledged  it  was  Rosaleen  who 
was  the  hostess,  and  she  the  guest  only,  was  inimitable.  This 
was  the  way  to  help  her  to  fill  her  place  here.  The  Duchess 
knew  Rosaleen  must  grow  to  fill  it;  she  had  all  the  qualities, 
only,  just  for  the  moment,  perhaps,  a  lack  of  self-confidence. 
She  had  yet  to  face  the  Dowager,  Terence's  mother.  And  what 
she  should  say  to  her,  was  the  question  that  beat  in  her  beating 
heart. 

403 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Up  there,  in  the  room  she  had  shut  against  them  all,  and  out- 
side of  which  Biddy  had  keened  the  night  they  brought  Terence 
home,  the  Dowager  waited.  She  had  been  very  quiet,  very 
patient,  but  at  the  back  of  her  patience  there  trembled  an  im- 
mensity of  overwhelming,  overpowering  restlessness.  It  was 
Rosaleen  she  wanted;  it  was  only  Rosaleen  who  could  tell  her 
what  she  wanted  to  know. 

"I  had  thought  to  hear  thy  children 

Laugh  with  thine  own  blue  eyes, 
But  my  sorrow's  voice  is  silent 

Where  my  life's  love  lies." 

Was  it?     Was  it?    Was  it? 

She  had  been  so  quiet,  so  patient,  trying  to  get  strong,  ques- 
tioning no  one,  hardly  speaking,  except  to  ask  if  Rosaleen  were 
found,  if  Derry  had  come  with  his  wife.  She  must  know,  she 
must. 

She  had  borne  the  long  journey  from  Dunstans  to  Ranmore 
quite  well.  The  Duchess  had  discovered  that  her  mother 
would  keep  quiet,  taking  her  nourishment,  obeying  directions 
of  nurse  and  doctor,  if  only  Sonny  were  in  sight  or  hearing. 
Therefore  he  shared  their  saloon  with  them  in  the  train,  was 
allowed  to  run  in  and  out  of  their  cabin  on  the  boat.  And 
here  he  had  Terence's  old  rooms,  where  she  could  hear  him 
at  play. 

But  it  wasn't  for  little  Terence  she  was  listening  now.  She 
had  heard  the  carriage  drive  up  ten  minutes  ago,  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  ago,  half  an  hour  ago.  Her  patience  was  all  exhausted, 
her  quiet  was  all  broken  up. 

"Biddy!  Where  are  you,  Biddy?"  And  old  Biddy  hurried 
panting  to  her  call. 

'And  haven't  they  come?  Go  and  fetch  her  to  me.  Why 
doesn't  she  come?" 

"An'  why  must  they  be  hurrying  so?  An'  why  don't  you 
sit  still,  and  not  be  tiring  yourself?" 

But,  before  Biddy  had  time  to  answer  question  with  question 

404 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

in  the  true  Irish  way,  Rosaleen  was  in  the  room,  the  same  room 
where,  three  years  ago,  she  had  knelt,  and  called  out  in  her 
anguish,  and  been  scorned.  It  was  the  same  room,  but  it  was 
not  quite  the  same  girl  who  knocked  with  quick  nervousness, 
stood  a  moment  on  the  threshold,  and  then  came  swiftly  over 
to  where  old  Lady  Ranmore  sat,  and  flung  herself  on  her  knees, 
as  she  had  flung  herself  that  night. 

The  Dowager  was  in  the  easy-chair  before  the  open  window. 
It  was  past  five  o'clock  on  a  November  evening,  but  the  sunset 
still  lingered  behind  the  mausoleum.  It  reddened  that  gray 
stone  cairn  where  Terence  lay  sleeping.  When  his  mother 
heard  the  quick,  nervous  knock,  she  sent  Biddy  away.  Now 
it  was  coming;  now  the  truth  was  coming.  Her  trembling 
limbs  could  not  support  her,  and  she  had  sunk  into  the  easy- 
chair.  Yes,  there  was  his  tomb;  there,  in  the  dim,  shrouded 
distance,  against  the  dying  sunset.  But  here,  here  at  her 
knees,  lay  the  truth.  It  had  lain  there  before  her,  long  ago,  in 
the  dust,  on  the  ground,  and  she  had  spurned  it,  turned  it 
away,  rebuffed  it.  Now  there  was  no  rebuff;  now  her  trembling 
hands  were  laid  on  the  girl's  head.  How  cold  it  was  in  the 
room: 

"  Cease  crying  now;  cease  crying.     Tell  me." 

"I've  come  back   ..." 

"  Cease  crying  now.  It's  his — tell  me  it's  his!  I'm  whisper- 
ing to  you — no  one  can  hear  us.  It's  his?" 

"What'll  you  be  thinking  of  me?" 

"It  isn't  of  you  I'm  thinking  at  all.  Tell  me.  It  is  his  son, 
my  boy's  son?" 

"Yes."  Her  voice  was  so  low,  but  the  mother  heard  it,  and 
triumphed  in  hearing  it. 

"Terence's  little  son!" 

"Terence's  son." 

"Now  my  God  be  praised!     His  own  son!     My  son's  son!" 

Rosaleen's  sobs  quieted  down  gradually;  but  still  she  knelt 
at  the  Dowager's  knees.  Now  she  felt  the  old  hands  trembling 
on  her  hair,  caressing  her,  and  she  heard  the  words,  too,  although 
they  were  mumbled  words,  not  very  clear,  coming  slowly: 

405 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

"In  my  old  age — to  be  a  son  to  my  old  age!  To  me  that 
doubted  His  goodness.  Mary,  Mother  of  God,  I  thank  you, 
I  didn't  deserve  it,  didn't  I  doubt?  And  then  I  saw  him,  Ter- 
ence himself,  and  the  quick  smile  of  him  .  .  .  come  back  to 
me.  My  baby  boy,  with  the  sunny  hair,  and  all  the  pretty 
ways  of  him.  Not  dead  at  all,  never  dead.  What  had  I  been 
thinking  about?" 

She  had  lapses  of  memory,  not  only  that  night  when  Rosaleen 
knelt  at  her  feet,  with  quieting  sobs,  and  quieting  heart,  but 
often  in  the  after  days.  Presently  the  knowledge  came  to  Rosa- 
leen that  her  ordeal  was  over,  and  done  with,  and  that,  without 
words,  or  any  explanation  that  must  cover  her  with  shame, 
or  stain  the  memory  that  Deny  had  helped  to  keep  white, 
Terence's  mother  had  accepted  Terence's  son. 

Often,  after  that  night,  they  had  to  humor  her,  and  bear  with 
her.  The  broken  blood-vessel  in  her  brain  leaked,  and  obscured 
her  judgment.  It  became  difficult,  later  on,  sometimes  to 
make  her  understand  why  they  called  Deny  Lord  Ranmore. 
She  never  resented  his  being  there.  On  the  contrary,  she  came 
to  depend  upon,  and  to  consult  him,  and  lean  upon  him,  but 
never  as  Ranmore's  lord.  The  sturdy  strength  of  middle  age 
the  Duchess  had  hoped  would  come  again  to  her  was  not  hers; 
but  its  passion  came  back.  Again  she  wanted  nothing  but 
that  Ranmore  should  stand  fair  and  clear  for  Ranmore's  heir. 
That  she  saw  the  heir  in  Terence's  son,  and  not  in  Deny,  mat- 
tered little,  while  yet  he  was  but  a  baby.  For  him  the  work- 
men were  recalled,  and  the  pick  of  the  miners  echoed  in  the 
valley.  For  him  the  rents  were  released,  and  the  fishing-boats 
sailed  once  more  from  out  the  harbor.  For  Sonny,  the  roof 
that  had  fallen  in  was  restored;  tower  and  turret  rising  again 
to  be  a  landmark  in  the  valley. 

But  before  the  end  came,  the  time  when  it  might  have  been 
awkward  and  difficult  for  any  of  them  to  set  before  her,  however 
gently,  that  it  was  Deny,  and  not  Sonny,  to  whom  all  the  land 
belonged,  God  spoke.  He  spoke  abruptly,  but  who  could 
doubt  it  was  His  voice  speaking,  when  the  horses  took  fright 
in  the  thunderstorm,  and  the  fatal  accident  happened  that  swept 

406 


LET  THE  ROOF  FALL  IN 

Terence's  son,  and  Terence's  mother,  into  His  own  safe  keeping, 
with  the  secret  still  untold,  and  the  title  and  estate  still  undivided  ? 

All  that  Terence's  mother  would  have  done  for  him,  she  did 
for  his  son,  that  would  have  had  neither  name,  nor  father,  had 
not  Deny  fathered  him.  But,  in  the  end,  it  was  Deny,  and 
Derry's  sons  that  profited,  for  that  was  God's  way. 

There  are  three  of  them  already,  worthy  children  of  their 
parents,  sturdy  and  strong,  black  Ranmores  all,  Protestant 
and  fearless,  with  their  wills  in  their  own  keeping,  obscured 
by  no  incense,  directed  from  no  confession-box.  They  are 
loyal  to  their  King,  and  faithful  to  their  faith;  spreading  peace 
upon  their  land,  singing  "God  save  Ireland"  with  a  single 
heart. 


(l) 


THE   END 


NOVELS  BY  ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 

"The  most  popular  writer  in  the  cotmfry.  "—NEW  YORK  WORLD. 

Ailsa  Paige.  Bound  in  green  cloth  with  gold  title.  Eight 
full-page  illustrations  by  F.  Vaux  Wilson  and  wrapper 
in  colors  and  gold.  $1.50. 

This  book  contains  not  only  the  striking  pictures  of  fashionable  life  for 
•which  Mr.  Chambers  is  famous,  introducing  a  hero  as  strong  and  as  inter- 
esting as  Malcourt  in  "The  Firing  Line"  and  a  heroine  as  fascinating  as 
Sylvia  Landis  in  "The  Fighting  Chance,"  but  with  these  personalities  is  fused 
a  theme  of  noblest  patriotism,  animating  the  vivid,  graphic  pictures  of  the 
preparations  for  and  the  grim  fighting  in  our  Civil  War.  Throughout  the 
whole  story,  the  influence  of  a  strong,  passionate,  uplifting  love  is  shown  para- 
mount in  the  lives  of  a  wondrous  woman  and  a  vigorous  man. 

The  Danger  Mark.     Illustrated.    Cloth,  $1.50. 

This  new  society  novel  presents  another  side  of  the  wonderful  art  of 
Mr.  Chambers.  The  background  is  woven  of  the  same  delightful,  casual, 
happy-go-lucky  people,  moving  among  the  same  sort  of  fascinating  scenes  and 
incidents  to  which  the  former  novels  owe  much  of  their  popularity.  The 
theme  is  in  many  respects  the  most  important  Mr.  Chambers  has  yet  handled. 

The  Firing  Line.     Illustrated.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

This  is  unquestionably  the  best  novel  Mr.  Chambers  has  ever  written. 
The  scenes  are  laid  in  Palm  Beach,  Florida ;  New  York,  and  the  Adirondacks, 
and  the  story  presents  the  accomplishment  of  a  great  novel  which  was  promised 
by  the  author's  preliminary  trials  in  "The  Fighting  Chance"  and  "The 
Younger  Set." 

The  Younger  Set.    Illustrated.    Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  The  Younger  Set "  is  a  novel  of  the  swirl  of  wealthy  New  York  society. 
The  hero,  forced  out  of  the  army  by  domestic  troubles,  returns  to  New  York 
homeless  and  idle.  He  finds  a  beautiful  girl  who  promises  ideal  happiness. 
But  new  complications  intervene  and  are  described  with  what  the  New  York 
Sun  calls  Mr.  Chambers'  "amazing  knack  of  narrative." 

The  Fighting  Chance.     Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

One  of  the  most  brilliant  pictures  of  wealthy  American  society  ever  painted; 
one  of  the  most  interesting  and  appealing  stories  ever  written  ;  one  of  the 
most  widely  read  of  all  American  novels.  The  novel  that  brought  Mr.  Cham- 
bers to  the  front  rank. 

"After  '  The  House  of  Mirth '  a  New  York  society  novel  has  to  be  very 
good  not  to  suffer  fearfully  by  comparison.  '  The  Fighting  Chance '  is  very 
good  and  it  does  not  suffer."— Cleveland  Plain  Dealer. 

"  There  is  no  more  adorable  person  in  recent  fiction  than  Sylvia  Landis." 

— New  York  livening  Sun. 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK 


NOVELS  BY  ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 

"  The  most  popular  <wrfter  in  the  country."— NEW  YORK  WORLD. 

The  Green  Mouse.     Illustrated  in  Colors  by  Edmund 
Frederick.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

A  novel  founded  on  a  most  whimsically  entertaining  notion  of  a  wireless 
machine  that  catches  and  brings  into  contact  the  psychic  waves  of  persons 
of  opposite  sex. 

Special  Messenger.     Illustrated,  Colored  Inlay  on  Cover. 
Cloth,  $1.50. 
The  romantic  love  story  of  a  woman  spy  in  the  Civil  War. 

lole.     Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  Think  of  eight  pretty  girls  in  pink  silk  pajamas  and  sunbonnets, 
brought  up  in  innocence  in  a  scientific  Eden,  with  a  '  House  Beautiful '  in 
the  background,  and  a  poetical  father  in  the  foreground.  Think  again  of 
those  rose-petalled  creations  turned  loose  upon  New  York  society  and  then 
enjoy  the  fun  of  it  all  in  '  lole.' " — Boston  Herald. 

Some  Ladies  in  Haste.    Illustrated.    Cloth,  $1.50. 

Mr.  Chambers  has  written  most  delightfully,  and  in  his  charming  satire 
depicts  the  plight  of  five  society  girls  and  five  clubmen.  It  is  by  far  his  best 
work  in  the  lighter  vein. 

The  Tracer  of  Lost  Persons.  Illustrated.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

The  captivating  account  of  the  strangely  absorbing  adventures  of  a 
"matrimonial  sleuth,"  "a  deputy  of  Cupid." 

"Compared  with  him  Sherlock  Holmes  is  clumsy  and  without  human 
emotions." — Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

The  Tree  of  Heaven.     Illustrated.    Cloth,  $1.50. 

If  you  looked  squarely  into  a  mirror  and  saw  your  PROFILE  instead 
of  your  full  face;  if  you  suddenly  found  yourself  %5  miles  away  from  yourself, 
you  would  be  in  one  of  the  tantalising  situations  that  give  fascination  to  this 
charming  book. 

"  Robert  W.  Chambers  has  brought  his  great  charm  of  story  telling  to 
bear  in  '  The  Tree  of  Heaven,'  wherein  he  treats  of  the  occult  and  mysticism 
of  the  East.  His  vivid  descriptions  make  his  scenes  strangely  real,  and  his 
argument  is  convincing,  almost  against  the  •will." — Milwaukee  Sentinel. 

The  Reckoning.     Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

A  story  of  northern  New  York  during  the  last  fierce  fights  between 
Tories  and  Revolutionaries  and  the  Iroquois  Indians,  by  which  tribe  the  hero 
had  been  adopted. 

"It  would  be  but  an  unresponsive  American  that  would  not  thrill  to 
such  relations." — New  York  Times. 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW    YORK 

~466 


BOOKS  BY  DAVID  GRAHAM  PHILLIPS 


The  Fashionable  Adventures  of  Joshua  Craig 

The  story  of  a  strong,  virile  personality,  set  among  the  frothy  super- 
ficialities of  society  life  in  Washington:  Joshua  Craig  is  a  young  lawyer  who 
is  striving  to  make  a  name  for  himself  in  national  politics.  He  is  big,  rough, 
and  crude,  repelling  and  yet  compelling.  He  fights  quite  as  hard  to  gain  the 
love  of  a  lady  as  he  does  to  attain  his  coveted  political  goal. 

Illustrated  by  A.  B.  Wenzell.     J2mo,  clot  A,  <$/.^o 

Old  Wives  for  New 

A  daring  title.  The  story  is  just  as  daring,  but  nevertheless  it  rings  true. 
It  is  a  frank  and  faithful  picture  of  married  life  as  it  exists  to-day  among  cer- 
tain classes  in  this  country.  It  is  the  story  of  a  young  couple  who  loved  as 
others  do,  but  whose  love  turns  to  indifference,  and  Mr.  Phillips  shows  us  why 
their  married  life  was  a  failure. 

izmo,  cloth,  $1.50 

The  Second  Generation 

It  is  a  double-decked  romance,  telling  the  love  stories  of  a  young  man 
and  his  sister,  both  reared  in  great  extravagance  and  suddenly  left  without 
means  by  their  father,  who,  being  a  self-made  man  has  come  to  feel  that  his 
wealth  has  been  a  curse  to  his  children,  and  would  prove  their  ruination  if  left 
to  them.  The  young  man  and  the  young  woman  find  life  very  hard  sledding 
for  a  time,  but  gain  strength  and  courage  and  make  a  good  fight  for  love, 
happiness,  and  life. 

Illustrated,  i2mo,  ornamental  cover  in  colors  inlaid,  $1.30 

Light-Fingered  Gentry 

In  this  story  Mr.  Phillips  has  chosen  the  inside  workings  of  the  great 
insurance  companies  as  his  field  of  battle  ;  the  salons  of  the  great  Fifth  Avenue 
mansions  as  the  antechambers  of  his  field  of  intrigue;  and  the  two  things 
which  every  natural  big  man  desires,  love  and  success,  as  the  goal  of  his  lead- 
ing character. 

Illustrated,  ornamental  cloth,  $1.30 

The  Worth  of  a  Woman— A  Play 

"It  is  a  remarkable  piece  of  work,  showing  keen,  logical  thought,  a 
daring  rush  to  conclusions,  a  bold  and  sportsmanlike  grip  of  an  ugly  problem. 
I  admire  the  pluck  of  this  author." — Alan  Dale  in  the  N.  Y.  American. 

J2mo,  cloth,  $1.25  net 
D.    APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW    YORK 

444 


BOOKS  BY  DAVID  GRAHAM  PHILLIPS 

The  Husband's  Story 

I2mo,  Cloth,  $1.50. 

A  clean,  straightforward  novel,  interesting  from  page  to  page,  and  ' 
as  a  whole  most  interesting  because  Mr.  Phillips  has  with  great  skill 
written  it  so  that  the  millionaire  husband  not  only  shows  the  character 
of  his  wife  but  lays  his  own  character  before  the  reader  as  if  uncon- 
sciously. A  faithfully  true  picture  of  the  social  climber  in  American 
womanhood,  the  Passaic  undertaker's  daughter  who  climbs  to  Euro- 
pean chateau  life.  The  most  cold-blooded  and  accurate  presentation 
of  a  certain  type  of  money-making,  hard-working  commercial  man. 
And  yet  the  man  tells  his  own  story. 

The  Hungry  Heart 

I2mo,  Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  Mr.  Phillips's  book  is  at  once  an  interesting  piece  of  fiction  and  a 
trenchant  dissection  of  some  of  our  most  dearly  loved  self-deceptions. 
And  it  is  a  work  that  can  be  read  with  profit — one  is  almost  inclined 
to  say  that  should  be  read — by  any  who  are  old  enough  to  be  able,  and 
honest  enough  to  dare,  to  seek  the  truest  meanings  of  life  by  teaching 
themselves  to  look  life  unblinkingly  in  the  face." — y.  B.  Kerfoot  in 
Everybody's  Magazine. 

"The  most  profound  study  of  the  emotions  of  men  and  women 
attempted  in  latter-day  fiction  is  found  in  'The  Hungry  Heart.'  It 
should  touch  the  sensibilities,  the  judgment  and  the  emotions  of  every- 
one who  reads  it." — Philadelphia  Record. 

White  Magic 

Illustrated  by  A.  B.  Wenzell,  Color  Inlay  by  Harrison 
Fisher  on  Cover.      i2mo,  Cloth,  $1.50. 

A  wayward  girl,  heiress  to  a  great  fortune,  falls  deeply  in  love  with 
an  artist  of  small  means,  who  does  not  seem  to  reciprocate  her  feeling. 
Her  father  intervenes.  The  girl,  who,  like  her  mother,  has  always  been 
accustomed  to  bow  to  her  father's  aggressive  will,  now  defies  him  utterly 
and  leaves  her  home.  The  artist  remains  unaware  of  the  havoc  he  has 
created.  He  is  friendly  in  a  manner  toward  the  girl  and  tr'es  to  act  as 
a  sort  of  elder  brother  and  counselor  in  her  perplexities.  The  working 
up  and  working  out  of  this  tangled  situation  is  accomplished  in  i  masterly 
way,  and  with  the  intense  and  dramatic  situations  which  readers  have 
learned  to  look  for  from  Mr.  Phillips. 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,      NEW     YORK 


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